The Trial

word count: 500
“The Trial”

“George, have you got your wallet?” She asked.

“I do,” I replied. Standing at the front door, ready to set the security alarm, I braced myself for what was coming. This was her sacred, "getting ready to leave," checklist; a habit formed over the course of our married years; all thirty-six of them.

“Ring?” she asked.

“Yes, Becky.” Annoyance replaced resignation. Once, just once, it would be so nice if she would...

“Cell Phone?”

Even though I knew I had it, I reached into the right pants pocket of my Halloween costume. Instantly a mixture of surprise and distress surfaced as my fingers failed to locate the lump of circuit-filled plastic that should have been cradled against my hip.

“Cell Phone?” From the bedroom, where she stood in front of the mirror adjusting the tilting halo on the angel costume she had rented for the evening, her voice escalated slightly. Like hounds on a foxhunt beginning to bay at the scent and nearness of their quarry she sensed by my silence that she was on to something. She would repeat the question until I provided one of only two answers she would deem acceptable: contrite admission of my error, which was tantamount to agreeing with her inferences that I was sliding headfirst into the gaping abyss of slobbering senility, or affirmation of the fact that I did have my cell phone and was not losing possession of my mental faculties.

Cursing my blunder, I returned to where the phone sat, looking up at me from its charger. I begged it to loosen without producing the incriminating click and beep that would broadcast the news of my forgetfulness. It might as well have been a bomb going off. The sound reverberated throughout our quiet home, alerting the authorities of my attempted crime in progress.

From our bedroom came the question I dreaded like the inevitable twinge of pain from a syringe still held aloft by the dentist, “You didn’t have it, did you?”

Crestfallen, I mumbled, “I could’ve sworn…”

“But you didn’t, did you? Hmmmm?” Rivaling the tension in a well written and directed TV courtroom scene with my angel presiding as the judge, jury and prosecuting attorney, silence hung in the air at the end of that melodiously expectant “Hmmmm?” which began low and rose slowly, in unison with her arching eyebrows, drawn out for dramatic effect. “Well, did you?” she asked again, as the unsympathetic cameras zoomed in on the tortured face of the defendant. The commercial break would be delayed so as not to miss this repeat offender’s reply.

“No.” I hung my head in shame. While women cheered, men around the world groaned, shaking their heads in despair. As TV sets across America were turned off and the courtroom emptied, my spouse resumed her last minute costume adjustments. I shook my mask and resolved never again to disappoint my male cohorts.

"Keys?” She asked.

Oh God, no, where were they?

The End.

If you enjoyed The Trial, may I recommend dessert?

ID: 1467766   (Rated: E) Title: "Mom's Chocolate Cake"  Description: Find out why Mom's cake tastes better than anyone else's, in this slice-of-cake vignette. By: George