The Puddle

Several minutes later, she was still standing in the same spot, staring at where his living body had been.  Red pooled on the floor, almost too bright to be natural.  It was shocking arterial red pink, especially against the grey tiles of the kitchen floor.  She could see the blood run across her palm, watched the hypnotic cycle of each drop growing, swelling and pushing against the meniscus holding it back, and then falling down under it's weight; the track across the heel of her hand flaccidly waiting to be refilled.  Her blood looked dull when it fell into the puddle of raspberry cordial at her feet.  Glass shards from the broken tumbler, she welcomed the pain as a change from the dullness when he was not there.