3 A.M. #96 - One Moment

Water pelted the metal sink. He stared out the window into a world bright and young. Hot water scalded his left hand but he ignored it. If the bright world looked in, it would see his nasty grimace.

The phone in his right hand flashed. The ringing repeated ceaselessly. The click, click, clicking of the over-sized wall clock was louder. Minutes passed. Still no answer. His hand blossomed red.

Trembling, he shut the phone off and set it down on the tiled counter. The black clashed with the grainy white of the 1950’s tile.

Click, click, click.

The scent of lemons and cleansing agents danced around his dark mood. His face blossomed red. He lifted the phone from the tile, clicked it on.

Beep. He hit redial and the same malevolent, seven tones played for the eleventh—no twelfth time.

Sore tenderness crept along the heat in his left hand. He withdrew it and the plate from the burning water. The phone rang and rang and rang. Mocking.

He pressed the end button.

His left hand shot out. The plate sailed across the 1950’s kitchen to smash in the living room, above the fireplace. Its white ceramic bits splashed against the stone mantle, chiming like a chorus of windchimes.

The front door creaked open. Her heels clattered against the hardwood floors, slowly.

His left hand reached again into the hot water. Against his battered flesh he felt the solid curve of the kitchen tile.

Her heels tapped impatiently first on the hardwood, then on the checkerboard linoleum. He turned to her, breathing in her scent. Perfume, stale smoke, lingering alcohol, sex and death.