His Explanation
That night, Mark uncharacteristically cooked dinner. Chopping potatoes clumsily, I leaned against the doorway. "Explain," I said, striving for calm. He paused, knife hovering. "What’s to explain? She claimed an urgent situation, couldn't leave, no other women nearby…" He turned, face a mask of helpless indignation. "Pure bad luck! She insisted on her special brand—not at the corner store, two blocks to the pharmacy!" He flushed, voice rising. "I bought them, shoved them in the envelope. She complained I took too long! What did I do to deserve this?"
The Midnight Dress Run
Saturday night, Mark and I curled on the couch watching a movie. His phone lit up. "Who is it?" I asked casually. "…Jenna. Says her backup dress tore before a big banquet. Wants… wants me to bring her spare dress from the office to her hotel. Now." "Now?" I glanced at the clock—nearly 11 PM. "To her hotel? Now?" "Yeah!" Mark leapt up, pacing the cramped living room. "Banquet’s starting, her driver’s gone. Damn it!" My heart sank like a stone in icy water. "So? Are you going?" My voice unnervingly flat. He stopped, scrubbed his face, avoiding my eyes. "Can I refuse? With her temper… Monday would be hell." He grabbed his jacket and keys, bolting out the door, shoes half on.
The Interminable Wait
I sat in the dark living room, TV casting ghostly blue shadows. The movie had long ended, silence thick and heavy. I tapped my phone screen on, off. Forty minutes gone. How long does delivering a dress take? Halfway across the city should suffice. Foolish hope evaporated like soap bubbles. Cold, viscous dread seeped in, constricting my throat. I dialed his number. Long, hollow rings echoed. One. Two. Three… No answer. I tried again. Only ringing. The phone felt cold and sharp in my palm. I gave up. Silence pressed in, broken only by my own shallow breaths. An invisible fist squeezed my insides, twisting them.
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That night, Mark uncharacteristically cooked dinner. Chopping potatoes clumsily, I leaned against the doorway. "Explain," I said, striving for calm. He paused, knife hovering. "What’s to explain? She claimed an urgent situation, couldn't leave, no other women nearby…" He turned, face a mask of helpless indignation. "Pure bad luck! She insisted on her special brand—not at the corner store, two blocks to the pharmacy!" He flushed, voice rising. "I bought them, shoved them in the envelope. She complained I took too long! What did I do to deserve this?"
The Midnight Dress Run
Saturday night, Mark and I curled on the couch watching a movie. His phone lit up. "Who is it?" I asked casually. "…Jenna. Says her backup dress tore before a big banquet. Wants… wants me to bring her spare dress from the office to her hotel. Now." "Now?" I glanced at the clock—nearly 11 PM. "To her hotel? Now?" "Yeah!" Mark leapt up, pacing the cramped living room. "Banquet’s starting, her driver’s gone. Damn it!" My heart sank like a stone in icy water. "So? Are you going?" My voice unnervingly flat. He stopped, scrubbed his face, avoiding my eyes. "Can I refuse? With her temper… Monday would be hell." He grabbed his jacket and keys, bolting out the door, shoes half on.
The Interminable Wait
I sat in the dark living room, TV casting ghostly blue shadows. The movie had long ended, silence thick and heavy. I tapped my phone screen on, off. Forty minutes gone. How long does delivering a dress take? Halfway across the city should suffice. Foolish hope evaporated like soap bubbles. Cold, viscous dread seeped in, constricting my throat. I dialed his number. Long, hollow rings echoed. One. Two. Three… No answer. I tried again. Only ringing. The phone felt cold and sharp in my palm. I gave up. Silence pressed in, broken only by my own shallow breaths. An invisible fist squeezed my insides, twisting them.
NEXT >>
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