The Bradbury Chronicles

The Final Scoop

         As I scooped another spoon of ice cream in my mouth, the front door opened with its familiar whine.

         I watched my husband, of ten years, stagger in with an exaggerated sigh. He began the usual routine of tugging at his already loosened tie; his lips pursed to begin the ritual.

         Time? 11:15 p.m.

         “Oh, you’re still up, hon?” he began, after doing a poor job of hiding his surprise at seeing me in the kitchen.

         I suffered his brief kiss; my nose barely able to stop the little scrunch at the stench wafting off him.

         Beer, peanuts…and something else.

         “…work was a doozy,” he continued as he opened the fridge and grabbed the ingredients for a quick BLT. “Hargrove, the bastard, wants me to handle the Lapinsky file. I mean, really? Haven’t I done enough for that guy?”

         He rambled on about excessive meetings and being tossed around like an intern after all the work he’s put in for the past fifteen years. He should be assistant manager by now- blah, blah, blah.

         He finished his soliloquy with a massive bite of his sandwich, then sat across me with an expectant look on his face.

         I licked the spoon and stared back at him before asking quietly.

         “Do you expect me to believe that?”

         His look of confusion would have been comical - if I’d been in the mood. Instead, I slid the phone toward him. The reel played on repeat: him locking lips with a voluptuous blonde at the Celtics–Lakers game earlier that evening—courtesy of the Kiss Cam.

         “Li-listen, honey, that wasn’t-”

         “Goodnight, Paul,” I stated wearily as I rose to my feet.

         I had heard enough of his stories to last me a lifetime.

         Come morning, it would be my turn to flip the page.




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Winning Entry
Word Count: 300
Prompt: Write a story that includes the line: "Do you expect me to believe that?"
Written For: "Daily Flash Fiction Challenge"