This was written for jezzaz' event: The 750 Word Project.
I knew going in this would be harder than I expected. I wasn't wrong: the first draft seemed absolutely as short as possible and was 1597 words long. Much pruning later, Word says 750 on the nose after the divider below (the intro doesn't count toward the 750 according to the rules).
I don't think I have the skill to put an enormous amount of story plot into 750 words, but I'm always interested in characters and hoped I might be able to create a sketch in that amount of space. Hopefully, I didn't utterly fail and Sherry will seem somewhat person-like to you — I admit that, after sitting with the 1597 version of her for all that cropping, I'm kind of fond of her.
Thank you for reading.
–C
* * * * *
"I'm off," I said when Sam answered. "I figure four-ish hours to Toledo."
"Are you positive about no quick lunch?"
"Yeah, I'd hit rush hour. I'll call when I get in."
"Okay. Love you."
"Love you, too."
Ten minutes later my phone rang: private number.
"Sherry?"
"Yes?"
"Do you know what's happening in your bedroom right now? If not, you might want to go home." Click.
What the
hell
?
No way Sam was cheating! But how can you not wonder at, "Go see for yourself"?
Ridiculous! I mean, we weren't lovey-dovey twenty-four seven but that's normal for young couples in demanding careers. We were good. We'd even started talking about kids, making Mom ecstatic at impending grandma-hood. There was no reason to doubt.
Should I call? And say what? "Hey, hon, are you banging someone right now?" Stupid, right?
No, this was a prank. Then again, who'd pull one this cruel knowing I'd smack the bejeesus out of them?
Come on. We know attractive women and there'd never been a hint of Sam straying. Someone wanted me home for ... what exactly? A surprise party? Neither birthday nor anniversary was close.
Still, what if— ENOUGH! I drive myself bonkers sometimes; home was only eight minutes away.
The fear struck when I saw Sam's car in the driveway; it wasn't supposed to be there. I pulled to the curb.
George, the retiree across the street, jokingly called, "Look who's working banker's hours!"
With a shrug miming, "What can I tell ya?" I headed up the driveway.
My neighbor, Heather, was watering flowers. She gave a little wave, but I barely grimaced and marched past, a woman on a mission. Belatedly, I realized that was rude and half-turned, but no, I'd apologize later.
