We stared at each other.
I had said my piece.
It was thought-out, rehearsed and sensible.
He had said his.
It was flimsy and ridiculous at best.
Then I watched myself like an onlooker as it escalated.
It escalated so loudly that people had gathered.
And now there was silence.
I hid my embarrassment with righteousness.
Feigned dignity as we continued to stare at one another.
My father once told me that if you are having an argument and you hit a patch of silence, the first one who speaks loses.
Silence.
It was agonizing.
Silence.
Did he know my dad's theory too?
Silence.
I think this is why my parents divorced. Neither was willing to break the silence.
He glowered at me.
I glowered back.
It was unlike me and I was afraid he knew it.
The top of my right thigh itched. I scratched it without looking.
One of the rules of my father's theory is that you can not shift your eyes. Shifting your eyes is as bad as speaking. Glance away? It's over. You lose.
How long could two people possibly stare at one another?
His eyes were dark blue. Almost gray. The whites were yellowish and dry. I scanned the jagged red lines searching for cracks. He had a hole pierced in his ear but it looked like the earring had been taken—
Crap. My eyes were shifting.
I secured my gaze.
Was I wrong? Was I being unreasonable?
I looked at myself through his eyes.
Crazy. That's what he's thinking.
My leg was shaking. I pressed it hard into the floor to make it stop but that only made it worse. I swallowed audibly.
This was it. I couldn't stand it anymore.
I opened my mouth.
Just as I did, he looked down.
I clamped my mouth shut.
And then he spoke.
"Alright, you can return the shoes. But for an exchange only."
My dad would be so proud.
This week's writing prompt is: Write a piece about a fight. What happened? Why? Who "won"? What were the repercussions?
