Morning came predictably. Shunning suburbia’s sun, pantomiming the actions of a typical day and swigging down the dregs of her tasteless coffee, she picked at the chipped, red polish on her toes.
Each convolution of his contorted explanation, he’d given the night before, began to fold in on itself within her mind. His lethal tiger roar and sharp slant of tongue, before he’d decanted his scotch and a sigh, had silenced her last night.
During college, they’d been on the debate team together. His astute mind and quick wit, she once found intriguing, had morphed like a block of sharp cheddar left out far too long. He now held the same plastic quality, crusty corners with oily sweat beads bubbling out of the, once, rich morsel.
After dissecting his convoluted lies with each peeling red flake, she made a call. She knew how he liked his scotch, among other things. The divorce papers were served a week later—neat.
Written for Flash! Friday Micro Fiction Contest
This writer is an expert of figurative language, using phrases such as “shunning suburbia’s sun” or “had morphed like a block of sharp cheddar left out for too long”. In so few words, she is able to make a reader despise the husband and feel for the mother with her expert characterization.