Thank you for stopping in to read my #fridayflash. I’m posting a little early this week since we have a lot going on this weekend. Be sure to visit the Friday Flash Community for more great flash fiction by outstanding authors! Unseeing is rated R by my standards.
Unseeing, by Roslyn Fain
He’d done it again. She knew he had, yet she could say nothing because, if she did, he’d know she knew. And he couldn’t know, it was too soon. He couldn’t know! But the rage that twisted its way from her gut to her head, where it spread in a tingling fit, could not be contained ….
“What are you doing?” she said, speed-walking from the bathroom to the bed where he lay propped against the headboard, his laptop barely sitting on his raised knees.
He glanced up at her, his face blanching, and furiously click-click-clicked the touchpad, but the computer wasn’t fast enough and so he sat up and closed the lid. She stood looking down at his hands, which gripped both sides of the laptop so tight his knuckles were white.
A drop of water dripped from her soaked head and splashed his bare knee. He looked her up and down then and raised his eyebrows as if to remind her why they were here, in this hotel thousands of miles from home, (thus thousands of miles from their problems) – to rekindle what was once burning with fever but now hadn’t even the faintest glow.
He reached up towards her breasts where she held the towel closed and she stood still, resigned to giving him what he wanted, or what it appeared he wanted, despite the anger pounding through her body. But when he emitted a low, throaty growl the bile rose up to her throat and threatened to spill. Just as he got hold of the towel she stepped backwards, away from him, the towel falling to the floor, and she clutched her stomach. She felt her lips curl up in disgust but she seemed to have no control over them. She continued to back slowly away.
“Where do you think you’re going, Kayla?” He wasn’t unkind, but neither was he teasing.
She stopped and stood naked and shaking before him. He didn’t move to pull her down to the bed. They stared straight through each other, trying to see what lay beyond.
It was a full minute before the contest was broken by the chirping of his phone, a ring tone she didn’t recall him using before. They both looked at it setting on the nightstand and looked back to each other. He picked the phone up and looked at the screen and jumped off the bed as if stung by a wasp. He walked around her, far around so that he didn’t touch her naked and dripping body, and opened the door to the hallway.
“Glen!” she said, irritated with herself for saying anything at all.
He stopped on the threshold and looked at his phone again. It had stopped ringing and now started again. “I’ve got to take this,” he said, and he walked out the door, not seeing his wife crumple to the floor, not seeing her pull the comforter off the bed and wrapping her shivering body in it, not seeing the tears slide down her pale face, not seeing her cover her head with the blanket. Not seeing her.
Unseeing is the story I see when I hear one of Bruce Springsteen‘s all-time greats, Trapped.
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