Fight

Emma slammed the bedroom door as hard as she could.  Then opened it and slammed it again.  Hot tears poured down her face.  She could picture John still sitting on the sofa, his face as confused as when it had all started.

She felt bad for screaming, calling him names.  Then she felt worse for feeling bad.

It was all his fault.  He was the one who wouldn’t tell his boss no.  He knew it made her mad when he was late getting off.  He should have just clocked out.

Dinner had been ruined.  It was nothing fancy and would heat up just fine, but it was the principle of the thing.

Emma sat on the edge of the bed and wiped away the tears with the back of her hand.  She prayed he would open the door, come and try to comfort her, partly because she wanted his arms around her, but also because she wanted to yell more.  Maybe she should go back out there.

But it wasn’t his fault, not really.  He could not control the weather or the job.  But she needed to blame someone.  And so she yelled at John, slammed doors, and made mountains out of cold pizza and flat soda.