Sunday afternoon, in the middle of working. Out of nowhere, a pounding on the door. Not an “Open-the-door-I-need-help!!” sort of pounding.
No. This is a pissed off pounding.
The door is opened and there she stands. Her voice seems calm.
But her eyes deceive her, and she is angry. She wants answers, but the answers don’t matter. Her words might have been the right words, but she feels wronged and is vomiting her attitude. She smirks without hearing, saying we are dishonest and ridiculous.
A yard. Our yard.
It’s been torn up and no one is allowed to play in it for another month. Not our kids. Not hers.
But she’s not buying it.
She stomps back (through our yard), and her words are left hanging in the air.
Stinging, stagnant and ugly.
(linked up at Extraordinary Ordinary for Just Write)