I was singing a silent song, holding the scissors tightly. Looking at the back of his head, I thought about him with that woman.
It was all he said, but it was enough. I kept cutting his hair.
“Ouch, what the–”
“Sit up straight,” I said.
“Why did you use souring milk on my cereal? You knew it had turned. You could smell it.”
“Had it turned,” hiding a smile?
“Ouch. I know you did that on purpose.
“I’m sorry.” But I wasn’t, thinking about him with that woman. She probably has lips like Julia Roberts, and I quickly pushed that thought to the side.
He stood abruptly, scattering the coffee mugs and sugar bowl. Shards skittered over the tile floor.
“Enough,” the word ricocheted around the room.
“I know where I can get a real haircut,” he snorted,
“What’s stopping you,” my scissors shaped a Zorro in the air.
Snorting, I watched his a pitiable attempt at dignity. He paused, waving an extended middle finger, and walked out the door.
I replaced the scissors in the drawer and didn’t cry.
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© 2014 Chuck Waldron