I have a directory on my computer called “outlines.”
The title’s a lie. It’s not really outlines, or at least not just outlines. It’s got all kinds of things in it, and one of them is this. I have no idea who she is. I have no idea why she’s so angry. Maybe someday I’ll write her story, but in the meantime, here’s today’s quick glimpse into my mind:
The air’s so still, the mist so eerie, the newborn morning so quiet, that when she slams the front door, the startled echoes fly back from every house, kicking drowsy robins into short little gusts of flight, to land confused and rattled. Every angry footstep echoes clapping back until the grating rasp of her key in the lock echoes nothing, not a thing, not a whisper. The staring windows, the taunting garages, all are silent, breathless, waiting for the final shouted insult of her car door slammed shut as hard as she can, as loud as she can, as door-slamming angry as she can.