In Omaha

I cracked my heart on the kitchen table. I did it two weeks ago because I wanted to see inside of it. Everyone says you’ve got to go on what your heart is saying, but mine hasn’t said anything since sophomore Chemistry when Mr. Graham leaned over me to turn a page in my textbook.

It cracked like an egg and crisply split into two pieces. No one’s noticed it’s missing. Except for my family, obviously, but they’ve been eating around it. Dad doesn’t think it’s fixable (he tried already with superglue), and Mom says it’s very Art Deco. She wants it moved to the mantelpiece, while Dad keeps saying, “It stays where it is. Nobody messes with my baby’s heart.” And every time he says this, Mom leans over the table, tugs at the shoulder of his shirt, says, “Thought I was your baby.”

This story originally appeared in NANO Fiction 7.1. Pick up your copy today.