Not Quite Write Longlist

THE INFINITELY GRATEFUL EX-MRS CARL FISHER

I'd always thought that expression was a bit dramatic. The one about pens being mightier than the sword. Pens are such innocuous things, really. Something you throw in your purse and forget. A bit of free advertising for hotels and accounting firms.

Who is more afraid of an ink stain than a blade?

I get it, now.

This pen is a weapon. It weighs a thousand pounds. I don't have the weight of the world on my shoulders; I have it in the palm of my hand.

So, this is what power feels like.

Everyone is staring at me. An army of suits, all on the edge of their seats, waiting for me and this pen. Will I sign? Is it over? I can practically taste their apprehension, anxiety permeating the room like noxious gas.

The silence is deafening, so I click the pen.

Click click.

They all flinch. You'd think I'd blown an air horn in the middle of the board room. I stifle a snort and try to keep it together. My lawyer shifts uncomfortably and I know he's trying not to look at his watch, but I don't care.

They can wait. I've earned it.

Carl and I met in a room like this. A room with glass walls and soulless art. He owned that building too, I think. I can't remember now. I just remember not being surprised when he asked me out on a date. He never was a subtle man.

He proposed in his office which, come to think of it, probably should have raised a red flag or two. But I was young, and he was handsome, and I thought I was in love.

The first time I took him home, Momma whispered that I'd finally picked a winner. She loved him more than I did. Another red flag.

Guess I'm colour blind.

Now someone else thinks she's in love with him. Maybe she is, I don't really know, and it doesn't really matter. I wish her the best.

Click click.

I'm poised to strike, and I pause one last time for dramatic effect. This time, my lawyer kicks me under the table.

Okay, okay!

I'm tempted to sign The Infinitely Grateful Ex-Mrs. Carl Fisher, but I don't. I feel ready.

Click click.

I sign my name and put down the pen.

The army visibly relaxes, low voices and the shuffling sounds of men rising from an overly long meeting filling up the room. My lawyer gives an audible sigh of relief. I kick him under the table.

I’m surprised when he shows up at my door that night, wearing jeans and a shy smile.

"I brought you something."

He holds out the pen.

We use it to sign our marriage license the following year.

So, this is what love feels like.