Wednesday, August 12, 2009

Writing Exercise

The red and white checkered table cloth was mildly sticky. She hunched over in the sparkly red vinyl booth so as to be closer to the table and to make her quieted voice more audible to him on the other side.

Him.

Him in the red shirt with the black and yellow City Health & Rescue Team logo. The same red shirt she was wearing. They sat in silence for long seconds listening to the noise around them and focusing on the pictures of old cars with burnt out LED’s for headlights on the walls.

Focusing on the waitress shouting, “Good to see ya, hon! Have a seat right here! Sweet tea for ya?”

Focusing on the three year old boy who just fell out of his seat and hit his head on the hard iron table leg and who is now screaming in pain. Focusing on anything and anyone else but each other.

Their glances, just for a moment, meet back across the table. She looks back down at her lap just as quickly. The big, round, dark skinned waitress bounced over and plopped down an order of biscuits and gravy on the table. “Eat up, ya’ll!”

She hears his voice. “I’m sorry this is what I’ve become.” And she looks up. “I hate that it’s come to this, but it has.”

She is visibly younger and quieter than him. Him with the loud voice across the table.

“I have so much hate and jealousy inside me! It takes so much energy to suppress it and keep it under control.” Why won’t he keep his voice down?

She looks up and whispers through gritted teeth. “You knew the situation when you got into it. You knew this is how it was going to be. What do you expect me to do?”

“I expect you to-"

“Keep your voice down, please!” she half-hisses across the table.

He lowers his head and his voice, but only slightly and brings his gaze directly and intently to her eyes. “I expect you to love me.”

Her expression softens a bit. She looks down at the untouched plate of biscuits. “This has nothing to do with that and you know it.”

And the three year old falls out of his booster seat again. His frustrated mother grabs his arm with one hand and yanks him up while shoveling eggs into her mouth with the other. She looks at him and shouts, “I think you like hurting yourself!”

1 comments:

tomorrowsmemoriesphotography said...

woah!
good stuff.
no, GREAT stuff ashly!
i'd love to read more.