Fiona kicked open the kitchen door and flung the grocery bags onto the kitchen counter. Dripping with sweat, she wiped her hot sticky hair out of her face with the crook of her elbow, closed the door and sat with an audible “hff” in her desk chair. Her open computer jeered at her. The letter she had to write … well, she wasn’t looking forward to it.
Let me follow up the phone calls this afternoon with a note.
And tell you my side of the story, she thought.
I don’t think that anything is going to appear on the nightly news and the newspaper lady lost interest when she was able to call it “domestic unrest.” As I was not arrested for assault, I think all will be well.
It started with a phone call this morning from Teena Davey when she called to tell me her grandmother had been shot in the hip with a waffle iron.