Today's flash fiction piece is prompt-inspired again. The prompt is in bold and came from this website here.
Slug
From
his sleeping patterns he appeared jetlagged when in fact it was laziness. How
else could he still be asleep when I got home after a double shift at the
restaurant?
My enthusiasm for home flopped like
a dying salmon when I saw my good-for-nothing, out-of-work, lazy ass husband
sprawled in bed. I dropped my purse upon the table and kicked off my shoes and
socks. My toes curled into the plush carpet. His snores grated my nerves until
my fingertips stretched toward the pillow. I couldn’t decide if I wanted to smack
him or smother him with it.
I yanked my hand away and stepped
toward the closet to change clothes.
At first, I thought Jerry was
depressed when he lost his job at the factory. They laid off over four hundred
workers. Times were tough, and work wasn’t plentiful. That was ten months ago.
Now he stayed up half the night playing video games and drinking beer. The rest
of the time, he watched TV or slept.
I slipped the T-shirt over my head
and ripped the ponytail holder from my hair. Strands—more gray than black—entwined
around the elastic band. I tossed it upon the bureau and pulled on a pair of
shorts.
He hadn’t applied for a position in
three months.
I stepped into the bathroom and
turned on the faucet. The water sloshed into the sink’s basin and splashed the
sides. I cupped my hands under it and rinsed the makeup and long day off my
face.
The snoring stopped and the bed-springs
creaked. “What’s for dinner, hon?”
My breath spurted against the
droplets. I closed my eyes, cut off the water, and grabbed the hand towel to
dry off.
His steps clomped behind me, and he
smacked me on the rear. The playful gesture got him a hard glare. He lifted his
arms and gave me that stupid cocked grin. “Tough day?”
“You have no idea.” I straightened
the towel on the rack.
His hands dug into my shoulders. The
pressure felt good, relaxing, but I just didn’t want to give in. Again. He
leaned closer and pressed a kiss against my neck. His breath reeked of stale
beer and cigarettes. When did he start smoking again? We didn’t have the money
for that crap. He wouldn’t even let me buy the dollar store hair color anymore.
“How about I—”
“No.” I jerked away from him. “What’s
wrong with you?”
“What?” He gave me that damn
slack-jawed expression.
A million words jammed against my front
teeth, as if they could knock them out. I wanted to spew the verbiage all over
him. Fists formed at my sides, my nails digging into my palms. A tremor raced
through my body before I regained control. “Nothing. I’ll go make dinner.”
I twisted away and left for the
kitchen, but I didn’t know how much longer I could stay in the house. Life had
to change, or I would do something I may—or may not—regret.
How long I could remain with the
ungrateful slug?
