"God dammmit!" Cynthia yelled, as she threw her flattening iron through the bathroom door and into the living room. Her boyfriend John looked up from his beer as it landed at feet.
"You OK?" said John.
"No, I just burnt my fucking hand!" Cynthia looked at her hand. Little blisters were already starting to form. She saw John walk to door frame still holding his beer. She twitched her nose and the door slammed in his face.
"Dammit, babe! Why do you have to be that way?" John yelled from behind the door.
"Just leave me alone for a minute!" she shouted back. "Just fuck off, John."
"Fine, whatever." he muttered.
Cynthia thought about twitching her nose again and turning John's skin inside out, but managed to keep her composure. She could still hear him muttering under his breath from the other room. With her uninjured hand she turned on the sink and ran cold water over the burn. After staring at the medicine cabinet door for a moment, it popped open and a box of bandages flew over to her. She dressed her wound and put the bandages back up without using her powers. The throbbing was beginning to ease off and she was starting to feel a little guilty for snapping at John, he had meant well after all. Suddenly, Cynthia realized it hadn't really been the pain. She no longer loved him and that hurt much more than the burn.
"John, I'm sorry. You can come in now." she called though the door.
He came in quicker than she expected. His face was blank and he wouldn't look directly at her.
"I didn't mean to yell like that. I apologize." said Cynthia
"It's OK. Is your hand all right?" He asked without looking up.
"I'm alright." she said holding up the bandaged hand. "I never really wanted to play the violin anyway."
He smiled a little at that. She had fallen for that smile. For a second she remembered why she had once loved him.
"Would you care to dance?" Cynthia asked him. She held out her hand and John took it. She twitched her nose once more. Suddenly, their tiny apartment was a ballroom. A pianist sat in the corner. He began to play Chopin's "Minute Waltz". Without her powers neither Cynthia nor John would have been very good dancers, but in that moment they were gliding around the room like a couple of old pros. When the music stopped, Cynthia said, "John I don't want to do this anymore."
"You're the one who asked me to dance, Cynthia." John replied, still smiling.
"No. This. Us. I don't love you anymore." Cynthia said quietly. John's smile faded and became a glare of contempt. For a moment they just stood there still holding each other.
"Fuck you, Cynthia." John said quietly.
She thought for a moment that he may hit her, but instead he squeezed her injured hand hard and then spat on the floor. The pain shot through her body and the ballroom began to melt away. Soon enough they were in the tiny apartment again and John wouldn't look at her. Instead of dancers they were just two people.
"I'm leaving you, John." said Cynthia.
"I'm sorry I squeezed your hand." He said, still not looking at her.
"No, you're not." She replied coolly.
John finally looked her in the eye.
"No, I'm not." He said with a wicked smile. That smile made her shutter.
"I hope it hurts for days!" He screamed.
With that, she got up and walked out the door without bothering to pack. The few things that meant anything to her she could send for later. Right now all she wanted was to be any where but this tiny apartment and with this man who already felt like a stranger.
While in the hallway, she heard a mighty crash against the door, followed by a muffled "Fuck you!". Probably the bottle of beer John had been drinking. It was hard for her to imagine him displaying that kind of passion, and ever harder to imagine him wasting a beer. People were starting to poke their noses through cracked doors, trying to discover what the commotion was. She glared at Mrs. Adams from 301, who quickly ducked back into her apartment.
On her way down to the lobby, she began to think about how many times she had walked up and down this flight of stairs and how odd it felt that this would be the last. She passed by Peter Rigginhouse, who smiled at her wanly. Peter was a dumpy little man who had always given Cynthia the creeps. Just to be mean, she wiggled her nose and the bag of groceries that Peter had been carrying became a bag of snakes. Peter dropped the bag in horror. His girlish scream reverberating in the stair well. Cynthia had to bite her lip, almost to the point of bleeding, to keep from laughing out loud. She twitched her nose again and the bag returned to an ordinary sack of groceries. "Everything OK, Mr. Rigginhouse?" She asked the terrified man. It was becoming harder and harder for her to suppress her laughter.
Peter was starring at the bag not knowing what to expect.
"That was a cruel trick, Cynthia..." He stammered. "I have a bad heart you know!"
"Trick, Mr. Rigginhouse?" She was no longer able to contain herself. "I don't know what you could be talking about," She said through the laughter.
Cynthia was now feeling much better. Soon my life with John will be a distant memory, she thought to herself. She continued through the lobby, leaving Mr. Riggenhouse to collect his groceries. Before walking through the doors one last time, she stopped to take once last look around. Plastic potted plants covered in dust and a threadbare couch in the one corner. She would not miss this place.
In the parking lot stood the beat up old Buick she and John shared. The car was in his name. She had been paying the rent for last six months and had made no attempt to pay her back. "This is collateral, John." Cynthia said out loud to herself. She wrapped her coat tightly around her arm and busted the glass out of the window with her elbow. Being careful not to cut herself, she reached through the broken glass, unlocked the door, and climbed in. Somethings were just more satisfying the hard way, she mused. She wiggled her nose and the engine roared to life. Without looking in the rear view mirror, she threw the car in reverse and backed out into the street, leaving the shattered glass glittering on the asphalt.
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