Window Pique
by Joanne Faries
“Hey, no note from you in my lunch today,” Darren said, strolling in from work. “Or dessert.” His lips brushed the nape of her neck.
Suzanne chopped onions and added them to the fajita pan. Her mind flashed to an image she’d tried to squelch, yet lasted for days. Saturday, she’d glanced out the window; saw Darren in Carol’s yard, embracing her. How could he? Those skinny arms … hugging another? I adore his pale body, professorial stoop, and shy lovemaking. Why Carol? Suzanne stood with her back to the room, spoon poised over the stove. A tear dropped, crackled in oil, signaling a burble of fury.
Darren, changed into shorts and t-shirt, plopped on a kitchen chair, and flipped to the crossword puzzle. As she stirred chicken, peppers, and onion, she fumed. Should she say something or continue to peer out windows, spying on Darren and their neighbor?
“When I got home, Carol was at her mailbox. Leg’s in a cast,” said Darren. “Meant to tell you … she fell off a ladder Saturday, pruning a crepe myrtle. I saw it happen and helped her up. She went to the ER that night, and it turned out to be a bad fracture.”
“That’s horrible,” Suzanne reduced the heat, left the stove, draped her arms around Darren’s shoulders, and kissed his bald spot. “Tonight, I’ll bake brownies, a plate for Carol, lunch treat tomorrow for you.”
As she hugged Darren, the fajitas sizzled - a cauldron of contentment.
END END END
Joanne Faries, originally from the Philadelphia area, lives in Texas with her husband Ray. Published in Doorknobs & Bodypaint, Off the Coast, Orange Room Review, and River Poets Journal, she also has stories and poems in Shine magazine, A Long Story Short, Up the Staircase, and Freckles to Wrinkles. Joanne is the film critic for the Little Paper of San Saba. http://word-splash-joannefaries.blogspot.com
