Spitfire

Short Sotry by Danielle Upshall

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Unparalleled, self-righteous fury, that’s her thing. Ash’s defining characteristic, albeit flaw, and what will reliably unravel her. Always does. Always will. 

With eyes glued to her cell phone, Ash walks through the front door of our apartment and into the living room, sitting down on the couch without acknowledging me. I can feel the negativity radiating from her.

I’m making dinner, seafood pasta in a white wine sauce - a quarter of the bottle of chardonnay for dinner, three quarters for the chef. I take the pan off the heat, set it aside, and place a lid on top to keep in the heat. I glance over to Ash. She hasn’t responded to any of my calls or texts all day. The silence is unnerving. My heart rate quickens, and I take a moment to steel myself. I walk into the living room and sit down across from her. 

“Don’t start,” she snaps, eyes on her phone.

“Ash, we have to talk about this,” I reply, trying to keep the concern out of my voice. 

“There’s not a need for this, really.” 

But there is a need. There is need, and worry, and fear. It has wormed its way inside of me, deep, engrained, past the point of concern.

I’m not entirely sure where the need came from. It’s never bothered me, not before. Why now? Why the sudden urge to scratch the skin off my body - chew my fingernails bloody, take the tweezers to my hair and pull out the strands slowly, deliberately. 

She continues scrolling, a strand of her hair falling in front of her face. I lean in to brush the hair away and she smacks my hand, finally looking up from her phone to glare at me.  

“Why don’t you just tell me,” I say. It’s not a question. I already know the answer. I just want to hear her say it. I need to hear her say it. To once, just once, own up to something. 

“You’re joking, right?” she smirks. There - that’s the first sign of the anger roiling deep within her. 

“You didn’t tell me about last night. I had to hear about it from someone else, and that upset me.” 

“Are you upset about what happened last night? Or because you heard it from someone else?” 

“Both.”

“I find that hard to believe,” her tone is incredulous, insidious even.