This post I have entered in the DudeWrite Flash (.... a ahh!) fiction competition. The challenge was to write an original short story under 500 words using the first sentence as a prompt.
“If you told me two weeks ago we wouldn’t be having this discussion now,” said Mary.
“No, instead we would’ve had the argument two weeks ago,” replied Darren. Two weeks would not have made a difference, I don’t want to go.
“This is not an argument.”
“Really? Could’ve fooled me. I don’t want to go to my stupid reunion, but you want to go and you’re forcing me to do what you want. Sounds like an argument to me,” it’s not a nice thing to say, but she never understands why I hate these things. The idea of going to a high school reunion makes my skin crawl, why would anyone want to go?
“I’m not forcing you Darren.”
“Why are we still having this conversation?”
“Don’t you want to see your old high school friends?”
“Shit no, if I had wanted to see them after all these years do you think I would’ve poked them on Facebook by now”. What a waste of time Facebook is. I only log on when people tag-thingy me in photos. I think I’ve only done like one or two status updates.
“What about me Darren? Did you think that I might have wanted to go?”
“But it’s my high school reunion”
“I want to meet your old school friends. Your old crushes, old girlfriends?”
“You’ve met Michael”
“Michael wasn’t a crush, wasn’t he?”
“Still, I want to meet old girlfriends.”
“It was an all-boys school Mary. There were no girlfriends. It’s just going to be sad with people longing for halcyon days without beer gut and a full head of hair. I don’t want to go because it’s a bunch of knobs trying too hard to be earnest in an attempt to hide the fact that it’s a pissing competition with an open bar.”
“Aren’t you proud of your achievements?”
“I am, but that’s why I have a Facebook page. I can brag about how awesome I am without having to suffer the pain in talking to these people. You think I created a page to see you ‘like’ spam photos because you love your dog? I know you love your dog even though I walk him every day! The good news is that now this is an argument!” She didn’t like that. Mary’s eyes turned cold and continued making the bed. I don’t want to go, it is my reunion and it is my decision. I turned to leave the room; it was time to watch football.
“Are we going to the Clarkson’s still Sunday? Honey?” I didn’t get a response. I turn back to the bedroom to see if she heard me. She heard me, she looked at me so I know she heard me, but she didn’t look happy. “Are we still going Sunday?” I asked again, Mary had dug in for a silent treatment. Sigh.
Looks like I’m going to my reunion after all. One night of hell there or weeks of torture here? Time to hire a Porsche.