"It was like something out of a shitty straight-to-TV movie. Everyone gasped, went quiet, and started talking amongst themselves. No one could believe that just happened. Then the priest dude or whatever tried to solve the problem, asking him 'are you sure?'. But then Kim started to cry and(more) turned and stormed off stage. All within like five seconds of it." He paused. "Crazy, man. I can't believe it either, they were so good together. Turns out she was cheating on him for months and that was how he wanted to get back at her. Basically by publicly denouncing her in front of all their friends and family."
"So did he, like, rant about her or anything?"
"No. not at all. It was really simple from his perspective. He said no, and that was that."
"...and we will give it away to the eleventh lucky caller coming right up after the next song." The announcer crackled through the old car radio. A slim gloved hand released the cold wood of the steering wheel to pick up and flip open a black Nokia cell phone. The(more) turquoise-accented in-dash radio was silenced with a tap of the same hand to the volume knob; the noisy crackling ceased to be paired with the faint wail of a Dave Matthews Band song that would be better off forgotten.
The green-blue 'Gumby' of a car continue to sail down the frosty highway, light flurries beginning to fall on the windshield, melting slowly on the poorly heated car. A quick dial of the phone and it began to ring as it was sharply raised up to a purple toque and the beautiful mess of long blonde hair underneath it. The screen of the phone waited patiently between rings, pressed up against two golden studs that adorned her right ear lobe. The fourth ring was announced with some hesitation and there was finally air on the other side of the call; mahogany-red lips smacked playfully together in anticipation, eventually settling into a tooth-bearing smile. A voice approached through the speaker: "sorry, you're caller ten" the phone clicked. (less)
There were three of them in the supply room of the kitchen, door firmly closed and locked.
- I don't know what he was thinking, said Lorne: looking at his feet with a shake of his head. - He just went off like a maniac.
- He'(more)s got to go. The worse chef that this place has ever seen, Kate added.
- He's put in so much effort into the restaurant, I can't see a way to easily get rid of him. The owners won't fire him surely, and it's not like he'd leave willingly. The sack of Matheson could never come. Fred said, looking around the room and admiring the foodstuffs that aligned the pantry shelves. He leaned against a thick and heavy wooden table that was primarily used for preparing vegetables and the sort. A nearby sack of potatoes smiled politely, but no one noticed.
"NEVER SAY THAT AGAIN!" She screamed as the window rolled up.
"I said I'm fucking sorry!" he yelled back at her now tinted silhouette.
(more) The engine roared to life and put all its effort into backing up as fast as it could. She hurriedly reversed down the driveway and backed out onto the road. Tears now streaming down her face as she kicked the car into first and peeled away, down the street, away from him, away from his stupid voice and his stupid words and his stupid face. And out of his life. (less)
Fred approached the stand, not knowing what was in store for him. He had already explained a million times over that he was innocent. He was at home, over two hundred kilometres away from the scene of the crime at the time they claim it happened. Alas, no one(more) had seen him or heard from him for two days. He had truly gone off the edge this time: a three day heroin binge had brought him from home to the city and back again. Allegedly someone had seen him in town and reported him for other crimes that he may or may not have committed. It was then when he sobered up enough to make the train ride back home. How had they pinned this crime on him, he wondered.
The foreman of the jury arose. "Guilty" the verdict read. It would appear that Fred was perfectly framed. (less)
He stepped off the bus and into the chilly mid-afternoon January air. Turning to make the short walk to her house, his mind was busy and clouded with the indecision of what words or phrases he would open with. Half a dozen crisp, fresh roses were clutched in his(more) gloved hands, shivering in the breeze as much as his body was shivering with anxiety and anticipation.
He slowed his pace and rounded from the sidewalk onto the front lawn: anxiety still building, and mind still working more than it ever had throughout his school years. Slowing even more as he ascended the few steps up onto the front porch, his heart felt as though it would be wretched out from his body by the infinite amount of butterflies in his stomach.
Another thought crossed his mind and he practically came to a standstill, mere feet from the door: what if her parents were home? What if they answered the door? What would he say then? He hadn't planned this well enough. Maybe he should come back tomorrow or another day when he knew it would be just her there. Just her to answer the door. Maybe this was a bad idea all together and he should just not do it. Yeah, that's the one. This is stupid. He should just turn around and go home. He should--