"Typical"
he said, as he walked in the door to see the scene set out before him. "I leave you alone for two hours, and this is what happens."
"Honey," she said, "this isn't about you. It isn't about us. Not everything has to be."
"Like hell it isn't about us," he said, pointing. "How is that not about us?"
She lifted the box into the air. "It's a box," she said.
"It's a metaphor," he said. "It's a symbol for sexual tension, for secrets that you aren't telling me, for everything in our life."
"It's a box," she said. She opened it, and dumped its contents onto the ground. "You're strangling me."
He wasn't listening, though, because his eyes had gone wide at the sight of thousands of tiny beads hitting the carpet.
"How am I going to clean those up?" he said, his voice strangled.
"I'll vacuum them up," she said. "It's not a big deal. I can buy more of them."
"That's not the point. We'll be finding them until Easter."
She reached down, and picked one of the beads up off the carpet. "If you want a metaphor," she said, "this is it. It's nice and shiny on the outside, but hollow on the inside, just like you."
"That's a horrible metaphor," he said. "Get out of my house."
She shrugged. "I was leaving anyway. You'll hear from my lawyer."
She walked out, and never looked back. There was the sound of an SUV starting up, but it soon faded into the distance.
He looked down at the floor. "How am I going to clean these up?" he said again. He tried to use it as a metaphor for his loneliness, but gave up quickly. Instead, he decided that it was a metaphor for his newly ended marriage: it was a mess.
He sighed, and bent over. He began to pick up the beads, one by one.
"Honey," she said, "this isn't about you. It isn't about us. Not everything has to be."
"Like hell it isn't about us," he said, pointing. "How is that not about us?"
She lifted the box into the air. "It's a box," she said.
"It's a metaphor," he said. "It's a symbol for sexual tension, for secrets that you aren't telling me, for everything in our life."
"It's a box," she said. She opened it, and dumped its contents onto the ground. "You're strangling me."
He wasn't listening, though, because his eyes had gone wide at the sight of thousands of tiny beads hitting the carpet.
"How am I going to clean those up?" he said, his voice strangled.
"I'll vacuum them up," she said. "It's not a big deal. I can buy more of them."
"That's not the point. We'll be finding them until Easter."
She reached down, and picked one of the beads up off the carpet. "If you want a metaphor," she said, "this is it. It's nice and shiny on the outside, but hollow on the inside, just like you."
"That's a horrible metaphor," he said. "Get out of my house."
She shrugged. "I was leaving anyway. You'll hear from my lawyer."
She walked out, and never looked back. There was the sound of an SUV starting up, but it soon faded into the distance.
He looked down at the floor. "How am I going to clean these up?" he said again. He tried to use it as a metaphor for his loneliness, but gave up quickly. Instead, he decided that it was a metaphor for his newly ended marriage: it was a mess.
He sighed, and bent over. He began to pick up the beads, one by one.