It was Christmas Eve. Fog stuck to the tarmac at Lindenbergh Field. She was sitting on a bench in the airport, nervously tapping her feet. The Christmas decorations scattered around the airport did nothing to lighten her mood. Her eyes were red and puffy and her mascara was running down her face. Nervous glances were directed her way as people made their way towards their holiday plans. She couldn't blame them; she was a wreck. Last week's argument kept replaying in her head. She couldn't recall the specifics of what had sparked the fight, but she could remember the harsh words they had aimed at each other. She started to wring her hands together. How could I have been so stupid? I can't bring a child into this. He or she will end up with a broken home, that will result in serious psychological issues later in life. It will be all my fault. I'm going to be a terrible mother. Her thought were interrupted by the sound of her name. She stood as her husband sauntered toward her. She had planned to broach the subject carefully, perhaps lead into it with a little small talk. How was your business trip? Was the plane ride nice? But when he stopped about a foot in front of her, the words just came tumbling out."I'm pregnant." She awaited his response nervously, but rather than the blowout she had anticipated, he swept into a tight hug that lifted her feet off the floor. After a minute or two he put her down and said, "Oh! Sorry, sorry, sorry." and laid his hand on her stomach. A large smile spread across his face. She started to smile too.
P.S. I agree with Fanny Howe's point that writing these days often ends with senseless violence that defeats the characters. However, this particular piece does not adhere to that statement, because there is no violence that overcomes the characters, and there is a happy ending.
No comments:
Post a Comment