Cross - February 19, 2012

[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "cross". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]

Cross - Squiddy Geiger - February 19, 2012

Zeb watched the proceedings quietly. The wind from the fan above him proved ineffective in taking the edge off the heat. He grew bored with Court TV, and flipped channels, stopping briefly on one or another, but only to move on again. He sipped his cold but rapidly warming beer. His mind wandered back to the fight that had put him in this fleabag motel in the middle of a heatwave.

He'd gotten home from work to new locks on the door to his house, and a note telling him he could not come in, with a copy of a restraining order attached to it that said he could not come within 100 feet of the house. He took the note and the order, and picked up the two bags she'd packed for him, sitting on the step.

He couldn't afford a real hotel - not until payday - so he'd ended up here. He'd called his best friend, Karl, who said he sympathized but couldn't offer him a bed because the in-laws were in town, so here he was, in the Flea Bite Inn, watching crappy television on a crappy television. He'd made the rounds of the channels and was back watching Court TV.

He should have been angry, but he wasn't. As Karl had told him on the phone - it had only been a matter of time. His friends had all warned him not to marry her, but he hadn't listened. He'd made a few mistakes, nothing serious, but she got angry each time, out of proportion to the sins, and it was always the same - she'd say in a quiet, controlled voice: "You'll be sorry you if you cross me one more time."

He hadn't worried about it. They'd always gone on, the grievance forgotten until the next time. Now, it seemed, he'd done it. He'd crossed her once too often. The worst of it was, he had no idea what he'd done, this time. He couldn't reach her.

He'd tried to call her, but it went to the answering machine. By now, all their friends would know, because of the machine. He'd called, and gotten "If you're not Zeb, please leave a message. If you're Zeb, I told you you'd be sorry if you cross me again."

He finished his beer and grabbed another one, and wondered idly if the poor schlub on Court TV had crossed someone. It didn't matter, and he started surfing channels again.

Posted by Squiddy at February 19, 2012 08:40 PM | TrackBack