edith zimmerman

A very short story.

“What’s for dinner?” I asked my husband Paul.

“It’s a surprise,” he called from the kitchen.

“A good surprise or a bad surprise?” I called back.

“Not telling,” he said.

“Oh, just give me a clue!” I called.

“No,” he said.

“Yes!” I screamed.

“Quit it, Dana,” he said.

“Tell me what it is!” I yelled with a whiny voice at this super-screamy pitch. “Tell me, tell me, TELL ME!” I yelled as I stamped my feet on the floor.

“Dana! Stop stamping,” he said. “Get a grip on yourself.”

“I’m on-ly go-ing to-o sta-amp har-der!” I yelled back, stamping on every syllable.

“Jesus, Dana, what is wrong with you?” he said.

“Nothing!” I screamed. “What’s wrong with YOU?!”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he said. “I’m making you dinner right now. From scratch. Christ almighty, you’re a goddamn infant.”

“No I’m not!!!” I screamed back as loud as I could. “I’m forty-five.” I hate fighting with Paul, but sometimes it just… happens, you know? We’re only human. I am at least.

This entry was posted on Monday, October 26th, 2009 at 2:31 pm and is filed under fiction. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.