When I open the door, I see blood and a guy kneeling on a plastic sheet in the living room. He’s holding a hacksaw that drips onto his jeans. His glasses are askew. The top button on his shirt has been torn off.

            I shift the bottle of wine to my other hand, wielding it like a weapon. I try to remember the half-dozen self-defense classes I took in college. Murder guy and I make eye contact.

            “I know what you’re thinking,” he says.

            Here’s what I’m thinking:

            Why didn’t I knock before opening the door?

            What type of self-respecting murderer doesn’t lock a door?

            Am I late for the party? Will anyone notice?

            Did Amy say she was in apartment 301 or 103?

            If I scream, is this the kind of place where the neighbors will notice?

            Why didn’t I add her address to my phone?

            Where’s the body? Shouldn’t there be an arm or a torso on the ground with him?

            Did I mail Mom that birthday card?

            Can I outrun him?

            If I die, who pays off the remaining debt on my college loans?

            It’s amazing how much a mind can process in a situation like this. I take a step backward and murder guy stands quickly, holding out his hands as if delivering a pizza. There’s something vaguely familiar about the gesture.

            I look closely at his blood-smeared face. The beard is new.

            “Steve?”

            He blushes. I didn’t know murderers could do that.

            “Look, Josephine. You’ve got to understand. I’m sure we’ll all laugh about this one day.”

            Here’s the kind of things I laugh at:

            Fail videos, especially ones with animals.

            Any comedy with Jack Black. That man is a comic genius.

            Political satires.

            The word dingo (don’t ask).

            Steve takes another step forward, and I raise the wine bottle over my head. He drops the hacksaw on a nearby table, also covered in plastic, and holds up his hands in an act of surrender. Apart from the blood, he doesn’t look very threatening, but that’s Steve. In college, he was our designated driver because we could always count on him to be responsible.

            “What’s all that ruckus?” sings a breathy voice from the hallway. “I sure hope a serial killer hasn’t broken into our home.”

            Amy emerges from the darkness wearing nothing but flimsy black lingerie. It looks good on her. Really accentuates all her curves. She’s cut her hair recently so her golden locks fall just to the edge of her jawline. I always knew she’d look great in shorter hair.

            Amy sees me, bottle raised to strike her husband.

            “Josephine!” The huskiness leaves her voice. Amy immediately pulls the hem of the lingerie down as far as it will go, but it’s not like I haven’t seen everything before. We were roommates all four years in college. Plus, she’s starting to pop out the top of the outfit.

            I lower the wine bottle. “Amy?”

            “The party is tomorrow, Josephine. My god, why don’t you add these things to the calendar on your phone like normal people?”

            Now I’m the one blushing. What can you say to defuse a situation like this?

            You guys are really killing it in the romance department.

            Do you buy your plastic in bulk?

            Can I get the recipe for that fake blood?

            This explains your obsession with horror movies in college.

            Why didn’t you ask me to pretend to be a serial killer?

            Do you want me to pretend to be a cop?

            Instead, I settle for saying nothing. I place the wine on a table near the door. It’s the least I can do. Plus, I’ll need something stronger when I get home. This scene will haunt my dreams and fantasies for years to come.

            I lock the door behind me.

Jeff Gard is an assistant professor of English at Briar Cliff University in Sioux City, Iowa. When he isn’t writing or teaching, he enjoys board games, disc golf, binge-worthy television shows, music, and procrastination (see above). He finds insomnia productive. Friends describe his humor as “dark” or “twisted,” but he prefers to think of it as an acquired taste much like lutefisk or sauerkraut. His stories have appeared in The Arcanist, Daily Science Fiction, Every Day Fiction, and Flash Fiction Magazine.