He flipped absentmindedly through the channels. Nothing, nothing, nothing. She walked past and out the door. He looked up as the door latched. She returned a few minutes later. He was still on the couch, mouth hanging open, remote held loosely in his right hand. He turned towards her again without really looking. He grunted, turned back and took another swig of his beer.
She stood at the door for a few minutes, watching him. She folded her arms and tapped her foot impatiently. He grunted, flipped the channel, tossed the remote back on the couch and put his feet up on the coffee table.
She sighed audibly, stormed down the hall. Her shoes clacked up the stairs, across the bedroom. There was a loud thump and then her shoes clacked back across the room, along with the sound of something heavy rolling across the wood floor, thumping down down the stairs and down the hall. The door opened noisily and then slammed. He turned up the TV.
Once more, the door slammed open, the knob embedding itself in the wall. He slowly turned around.
"I'm leaving, Stan."
"Where are you going?"
"It doesn't matter."
"When will you be back?"
"I'm not coming back, you moron."
"Are you mad at me?"
"Ugh," she muttered and walked out the door.
"Wait, wait," he said getting up off the couch and starting for the door.
"What?" She said.
"Why are you leaving?"
"Are you kidding me? You're asking me that now?" She took a step back towards him and he quickly took three steps back smacking his head into the doorframe. "You are seriously impossible. Are you that clueless?"
He looked at her, speechless.
She waved him off with a dismissive gesture, turned on her heel, strode to her SUV, yanked the door open, climbed in, slammed the door shut. The behemoth roared to life, tentatively pulled forward a few feet, the wheels turned slowly and the 3/4 ton Yukon Denali creeped slowly onto the lawn. Then the engine roared and the truck jumped back. The Boxter did not stand a chance, the corner of the SUV's bumper catching the car square in the door and folding it well into itself.
And she was gone.
He looked what was left of the car for a moment longer, scratched his belly absentmindedly, shrugged and went back inside in search of his beer.
Eh. I think my problem with my short stories is that I don't plan them out. It's been over two months since I last visited my story about the art thief Dell. I kind of have some ideas of where I want to go next. In fact, the next scene I want to write is the actually the thing I thought of first, only I didn't have a good place for it at the time. I have a good place for it now, but it won't stand alone. If I worked it, I could write the next scene, but I haven't taken the time to think about the scene after that. So my stories end up being really short (which is fine for a 120 -- and I haven't done any of those in a long time) or they end up not getting written.
Too much I want to do, too much I want to do. Oh well. I guess that's a good problem to have. No matter what, I'm never bored, I suppose. I guess as I was thinking about last night, I have to console myself with the thought that there is always stuff in the future that can be done. I had hoped that before the end of the rainy season to have made the area under the deck into more of a hangout area. But, the pile of wood with nails in it still persists, the path to it is still just dirt and mud and the children are too young to be interested in staying out there too long watching the rain. Good news is that living here we'll have plenty of rainy seasons. Eventually I will get a path to it and the area underneath covered in gravel and paving blocks. Of course, then it will be difficult not to want to turn it into a storage shed.
My story above doesn't represent anything. I was thinking about making it represent something. The woman, who I didn't even get around to naming, was going to rip into Stan much more. But then I decided I couldn't exactly make it work and I was already worried people might read something into it that wasn't really there. Like how could she be so heartless or doesn't she know that she's going to probably be arrested or something. But I guess if I have to start explaining it, that means the work doesn't stand on its own. My dad got me some books for my birthday on short story writing. I will read them. There's just a few other books I need to read first.