He should have been home earlier, but oh well. She’s used to it.
He fumbles with his keys, drops them. Should have left the bar a couple shots ago.
He walks through the door into silence. He calls her name. May be she’s on the porch. He shouts louder. No answer. He goes from room to room.
Where is she? She should be here. Dinner on the table, waiting.
Anger wells as he sees the note; there is no excuse he thinks before he starts reading.
“Don’t try to find me… Call my lawyer…”
He crumples the letter and hurls the box against the wall. It smashes. The glass pen flies and shatters.
Another mess to clean up.
Written for Alastair’s Photo Fiction