What it wasn’t
by Jesse Cramer
It wasn’t a fight. It wasn’t even an argument; it was a laundry list: she wasn’t happy, he wasn’t fulfilled, the kids deserved better. It was all the things behind all the fights, but this time in a somber tit-for-tat exchange. And then … it was decided.
He sauntered out the front door, screen slamming behind him as he stepped off the porch he built with his brother two summers before. Time to find an apartment. Time to hire a lawyer. Time to order pizza and tell the guys to bring whiskey. He shut the car door, buckled his belt, and turned the key. As he shifted into drive, he glanced at the window and saw the silhouette of her head through the blue curtains of the living room window.
She slumped on the leather ottoman with her elbows on her knees, hands wrapped around a mug of lukewarm tea. The tears she expected had not come. She heard the gravel crunch as the car pulled out, heard the breaks squeak at the stop sign on the corner Adams and Spotswood, and then she heard the slow clicking of the kitchen clock.
She stood and placed the tea next to her purse on the bookshelf by the door. She thought of the cell phone somewhere within that purse. She could call her sister, ask her to bring the kids home early, but they were probably settled down to a movie by now.
She ran a finger down the spines of DVDs on the second shelf down. Maybe Julia Roberts could clear her mind. Maybe there was ice cream in the freezer.
(here two of those fence posts graphically displayed)