Short Fiction: Tall Drink of Water

“It was here a second ago!” She swept papers to the side, a lamp fell to the floor and broke.

“Look, let’s not make this such a big deal…” He began, but she interrupted like she always did.

“Damn it, we’re not leaving until we find it. You could help me, you know,” she glared at him now, hot with passion, “instead of standing there like an idiot!” She resumed her angry searching.

He shrugged, took his hands out of his pockets. Took his jacket off, set it down in the leather recliner. He walked over toward the desk. Keeping it between them, he asked, “So, where did you have it last?”

She stopped, he held his breath. “That’s it? That’s the best you can do? That’s some fucking help!”

“Listen,” he started, she looked at him. “Where would you like me to look?”

“I don’t know – somewhere – wherever – just help me find it.”

He poked at the magazines sacked on an end table, swept his gaze across the knick-knacks above the fireplace, perched on the shelving. He sighed, started lifting up couch cushions.

Drawers slammed, his wife sighed loudly then stomped up the stairs.

He set the couch cushions back into place, walked to the liquor cabinet, poured two fingers of Glenlivet into a heavy cut crystal glass. He looked at it then splashed another heavy pour in the glass.

“Bitch,” he said to himself. He was startled to hear it come out of his mouth, so he said it again, “Bitch”. He was just warming up when her footsteps cascaded down the stairs.

“Henry!” She yelled. “Did you check the downstairs bathroom?” Her voice dopplered as she approached.

He swallowed his drink in one gulp and set it carefully on the shelf. “No, didn’t check there. Will, though, soon as I’m finished here.”

“Never mind, I’ll do it.” Her heels clattered past toward the kitchen.

“I’ll bet she took it with her,” he said quietly.
“I’ll bet she has it,” a little louder.
“She took it with her,” now almost yelling.

“What?” From the kitchen, down the hall, her voice lost none of its grating edge.

The liquor had hit his ears, buzzing them. He felt confident and knew it was the alcohol.

“She took it after we fucked.”

“What?” Rattling the junk drawer, slamming cupboard doors shut.

“She’ll probably bring it back this weekend, when she sleeps over.”

“Have you found it yet?” Her sharp heels sparking down the hallway towards him.

“So I wouldn’t worry about it,” he concluded as she entered the study.

“Well, that’s easy for you to say,” she snapped, “it’s not your wedding ring that’s lost.”