by Stephen Hill
“I can’t believe you,” snapped Stu, and rolled onto his side. Turning off the light, he yanked on the lamp’s cord hard enough to tear it off.
So melodramatic, Miranda thought. So Stu. “You want another answer, ask someone else,” she said. A yawn warped her words mid-sentence, and she opened her mouth even wider to ensure her jaw popped. She knew he’d hate that.
“Bite me,” Stu grunted.
Her eyes narrowed, and the outline of his back swam out of the dark like sludge from a puddle. She heard the furious rasping of his forefingers against the pads of his thumbs.
She wedged her face between his shoulder blades, and the muscles along his spine coiled and tensed. How she wished her nose was a knife. “Your mood is for shit.”
“Well you’re stuck with it.”
“Don’t be so sure.”
The sheets whipped back, and Stu was off the bed and looming--hair twisted into snarls, and fists splitting the air with punches. “You want to tell me something?” he screamed. “Finally?”
“No,” Miranda said, and clicked the TV on with the bedside remote. “I want to ignore you.”
“Another night in paradise,” said Stu, and the door slammed hard enough to make the jam crack behind him.
From the TV flickered the image of a raven soaring over a decimated forest, its ebony wings etched black and beautiful against a blue sky.