The Short Short Story

The short, short story is a challenge in writing a piece of ficiton in 250 words or less. This is my attempt today, however I'm a tad bit over 250 words. Enjoy.

This Too

Her hands are cold and pale, with chipped black polish on all her fingernails, which are impatiently tapping against the table they bought together at the flea market two summers ago. He had given the gypsy woman in the swirling turquoise skirt thirty-five dollars and laughed with his crooked teeth sticking out and his curly head bobbing all the way to their new home about what a steal this was. They had stayed outside that day under the scornful eye of the sun, sanding the wood by hand with little squares of gritty sand paper until the rough edges had been smoothed out and her muscles were aching from working so hard. She had run her hand over the grain and it felt like a warm, powdery blanket, too stiff to cover up with, but somehow radiating confidence and security as only a false idol could. They had slowly stained it a soft mahogany, not once but twice to make sure the color was even and deep. Two days later he had gotten mad at her, for what, she couldn’t remember now, and had slammed his glass down so hard it left a small indent on the polished table.

Her tapping hand stops with a slap across the now worn, dented, dull surface. She picks up her cell phone, dials his number, which goes straight to voicemail, and leaves him a message about how she hates him, and what a jerk he is for doing this to her, whatever this is, this time, and screams. She hangs up, throws the phone at the table leaving a fresh mark, sits back, and folds her arms across her chest. She waits two seconds, picks up the phone again and redials his number. This time she says, “I’m sorry. Call me back. I love you.”