Bianca buffs her nails on her sleeve, and crosses her arms nervously. She hopes Char will come soon. From the look of it, departures are taking place, and she doesn’t want to be the only one to witness them.
Her finger had been poised above the bell for Char’s place when she’d heard his voice upstairs. Bobby. Maybe she was interrupting. Maybe Char hadn’t meant for her to come over today, bearing rolls from Cinnabon and soy lattes from Flying Goat Coffee. She’d scuttled back to her car, embarrassed. She’d gotten a signal wrong. Her married friends didn’t want to kaffeklatch with her when their husbands were home.
She’d assumed Bobby had been talking to Char, but he’d come outside alone, his cell balanced between ear and shoulder, a stack of garment bags cradled in his arms…
Where was Char? Why had she phoned? Was Bobby leaving?
Of course, he could be going on a business trip. Yeah, that could be why he was tromping down the front steps of their little condo for the third time with suitcases. He could be going to Europe or Malaysia or something. He might be away for weeks. Of course, that didn’t explain why he was doing all of this in the middle of the morning, when normally Char was at work…
Bianca sat, waiting awkwardly, hand on the parking brake, trying to decide if she should stay or go. Bobby had glanced up the street, toward her car. She was pretty sure he’d seen her. She was pretty sure that the open cardboard box he carried, full of odds and ends like coffee grinders and hangers was not something one would take on a business trip. She swore. Now he was striding down the walk in her direction. She turned the key and pressed the button to roll down the passenger’s side window.
“Can I help you?” Bobby’s brows were raised in faint curiosity. His polite tone set Bianca’s teeth on edge.
“Looks like you’re moving out.” The words rattled like gravel.
Bobby grimaced, dropped his pretense. “What’s it to you? Charelle’s at work. She won’t be home until about three-thirty.”
Bianca tilted her head toward the street. “Looks like you got her schedule wrong.”
Bobby’s face tightened as Char’s blue Civic pulled into the driveway. Bianca gnawed on her lower lip as Char flung open the driver’s side door, alternate expressions of fear, frustration and fury chasing across her face. Uneasily, Bianca rolled up her window, feeling like she ought to be somewhere else. The scene played out in pantomime.
What. Is. This. Char’s accusing finger, stabbing toward the car, the boxes, the man.
Now please, calm down. Bobby’s hands raised placatingly, shoulders hunched.
Calm down? Calm down? Char’s hands fly up toward her face, jerk like tethered pit bulls. In a heartbeat, the movements of rage falter, and Char’s body slumps as if she’s been hit. Bianca knows her cue as a friend, even as the unmarried friend, who knows nothing about the intricacies of a marriage.
“Char.” Bianca slides from behind the wheel of her car, her hands outstretched, wanting to shelter, waiting to heal. But Char surprises her, and straightens, her face emerging dry and defeated.
“Let’s help him,” she says in a surprisingly emotionless voice. “I’m sure he hasn’t got all day.”
So. The picture (Unusual Neighbours) which inspired this week’s Ficktion snippet was taken by Flickr photographer Ed Ed. It’s a nifty pic, and I like his stuff.