I decided on a stylistic approach for this one. Showing internal anger without it manifesting externally between two people. I also played with pacing in the line-by-line work to hopefully increase tension.
Thanks for reading.
Fight
He sat in his idling ‘05 Civic, in the driveway of his house, her car in his spot. He got out of the car and stood there with a pen in his fist beside her plump car tires. A sudden breeze flung his tie up to his face, and he caught the scent of laundry detergent. Summer breeze, specifically, and the coincidence made him smile. He looked up to the sky, and it was clear and beautiful.
He put his pen in his pocket.
About to take the path that led to the front door, he noticed chipped paint on the garage door. Dents, too. He touched it. Some of it was wet. Off-color. A sloppy patch job. The true color of the garage door dotted her bumper, which was still in his spot.
She sat in the plush recliner in her living room, the TV screen black. Two candles sat beside her on end tables she’d inherited from her great grandmother. A sudden breeze pushed through the slightly open window facing the front yard and put out the candle.
She went to relight it, already missing the scent of cinnamon and vanilla. Gouges in the wood screeched across her vision. She went to touch them, praying they were an illusion. They were not. Her eyes welled. She investigated the shapes and saw the impression of a Honda logo above sawtooth marks of what was undoubtedly a key.
He rotated his stiff neck and fought the urge to grab his pen again and tripped, nearly falling down if not for the birdbath in the garden beside the walkway. A garden hose lay strewn in front of him. He followed its intestine length to the end. Water dribbled out into her flowerbed.
He put the hose away, as it should have been, encircled around the mount on the wall just for that purpose. He adjusted his tie and headed for the door.
She moved the candle over the scratches, the wounds, hoping she would forget. She could never forget. A drink of tea, she thought, would calm her down. Ease her soul.
Her ritual was simple: A flute glass with two ice cubes, a lemon slice without the rind, and a dash of milk. She found all these things and was ready to add the milk, the final ingredient, when something felt off. The weight, the way it sloshed in the carton. She poured anyway, and curds dropped into the tea. Rotten pustules infested her drink with cloudy filth.
Keys worked in the front door, and she dropped the glass to shatter on the floor.
He pushed and twisted, but the key wouldn’t work. He slowed his pace, imagining the inner workings of the lock. It clicked.
She wept over broken glass, which cut her finger. Blood mixed with tea and curds. She heard the door open, smelled his cologne pump into the house. She grabbed the longest piece of glass.
He kicked his shoes off in the middle of the entryway and dropped his briefcase. The tile was spattered in pink. He smelled nail polish. Still wet.
She crept into the living room.
He turned on the TV. It blared news commentary.
She rounded the dining table. It was set for three.
He saw her.
She saw him.
They approached each other.
He was sweating.
She was sweating.
He hated her face.
She hated his.
“I love you,” he said.
“I love you, too,” she said.
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