You Never Call Me
by J. M. Poirot
Three hours later, I poured myself another glass of red wine then sat in the darkness staring at it. The crystal glinted through the shadows, beckoning. I was reaching for it when I heard the door opening. Then I dropped my hand. It was futile. The glass seemed a mile away.
“Nice of you to show up,” I said, blinking as the hallway light hit my eyes. I didn’t even look up as the keys hit the dining table.
“Are you sulking again? You know how stressful my job is,” came the snippy reply.
“Dinner got cold so I dumped it in the trash,” I shot back.
There was no response to this. Finally, I asked, “What is so difficult about returning my fucking phone calls?”
I heard a muffled “sorry” behind me as she pulled her cashmere sweater over her head. Yeah, it didn’t sound like a heartfelt apology to me either. Then, she rubbed my shoulders.
“No, I’m not in the mood,” I pushed her hands away.
“Jim, I’m really tired of this.”
“Yeah, me too.”
“I already apologized. What do you want me to do? Go crucify myself?” I rubbed my jaw as I considered this.
“Yeah maybe,” I said then looked at her. She was so incredibly beautiful. She grabbed her stuff and knocked over my wine with her bag. The wine splattered against the new khaki pants I bought just for tonight. As I heard the door slam, I covered my face with my hands.