Welcome to The Spot Writers. The prompt for this month is to write a story in which someone pugnacious plays a major role. This time, it’s Cathy MacKenzie’s turn.
Cathy’s writings have been published in over four hundred print and online publications.
Check out her website (www.writingwicket.wordpress.com) for more information.
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Caught in the Act
Cathy MacKenzie
I was caught unawares when Fred suddenly appeared at the desk and shrieked, “What are you doing?”
I felt my face go hot. My arms fell to my sides like limp noodles—though I was unaware they’d fallen until I snapped them up into a defensive cross to protect my face.
Fred slammed one hand on the desk, leaning over me like a boxer waiting for the bell. No, he was my husband; he wouldn’t actually strike me. But he sure looked like he wanted to.
Still, I’d been caught in the act. And by my husband, the one person I always wanted to impress.
“What are you doing?” he barked again, towering over me.
“Nothing,” I mumbled, surprised I could even speak through the thick dough in my throat.
He glared at me, his jaw working as he scanned the desk, his eyes locking onto the evidence. “Nothing? You call tearing through a dozen donuts like a starved dog ‘nothing’?” He pointed at the open box.
Funny, though. Hearing his booming, combative voice echo through the room, my guilt suddenly vanished. I had been on a diet for three weeks. I hadn’t eaten dinner the previous evening, nor had I eaten breakfast that morning. I was starving; I had to eat, and there was nothing else but those donuts. I couldn’t leave the office, not when I was manning the premises. And the boss’s wife couldn’t starve, could she?
He didn’t wait for an answer. He threw up his hands in disgust and marched down the hall to his office.
I slumped into the chair, swallowed the mush in my mouth, and licked my fingers, my heart hammering against my ribs.
I was filling in at Fred’s company while the receptionist was ill, something I did on occasion. I didn’t do much besides answer the phone and offer greetings when someone entered the building. Quite boring, actually. I’d much sooner be home doing my own thing, but I felt it was my wifely duty to help in his time of need.
And this was how he thanked me?
I was devastated he’d caught me in the act. I almost cried but then reconsidered. What good would tears accomplish except to run my mascara and ruin my foundation? And what had I done, really? I hadn’t stolen company funds, nor had I snooped into financials. No, I had simply been caught—literally—with my hands in the cookie jar, to use a cliché.
But it was Fred’s fault! He had practically dared me by leaving the box of confectionary goodness with me at the front desk earlier that morning. “Help yourself,” he had said, dropping the box on the desk. He snickered, leaning in close. “Smell good, don’t they?” he’d taunted before disappearing, quite aware I possessed no willpower.
We’d been married for almost forty years. Shouldn’t he have clued in to my faults by now? Or was he just looking for an excuse to pick a fight?
Yep, you guessed it. I didn’t take those luscious, mouth-watering globs of goodness out back to the guys in the warehouse as I’d been instructed. Fred wasn’t supposed to have returned until early afternoon when he was going to take me to lunch. He’d never have known had he stuck to his schedule. While pigging out, I’d rationalized I’d order a diet soda and salad.
Minutes later, he returned. “I can’t believe it,” he hissed. “You ate ten of them? Those were for the warehouse crew! Do you have any idea how hard those guys work?”
I looked inside the box, truly stunned to see two lonely donuts. Had I eaten ten? How many calories had I consumed?
I knew I was wrong, but his bullying crossed the line. If he wanted to treat me like an adversary, I might as well act like one.
While he watched, I reached into the box, grabbed the jelly-filled one instead of the old-fashioned plain, looked him dead in the eyes, and took a massive, defiant bite.
“Too late for the box to go to the warehouse now,” I said through a mouthful of filling. “Ten hulking guys couldn’t share two anyway. And now there’s only one.”
His face turned a deep crimson, but the sweet mixture instantly soothed any feelings of inadequacy. Gah, they were so good! Lunch was damned; I’d take donuts over a salad any day.
Fred would eventually calm down. He always did.
***
The Spot Writers:
Val Muller: http://www.valmuller.com/blog/
Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com
Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com
Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.ca/
