Short Story Sunday: The Language of the Soul

"This isn't exactly weather for a barbecue."

"We'll make the best of it, don't worry." Mickey tapped the address into the car's navigation system and looked at her. "Nervous?"

"What would give you that idea?"

"Oh, I don't know. The look of terror in your eyes, your white knuckles on the door handle and the sweat on your upper lip."

"Sometimes I hate that you're a police detective. You notice way too much."

He chuckled. "It comes with the territory." He squeezed her thigh. "They're going to love you, Kate. Trust me."

Short Story Sunday: Looking Back

Walter stroked his forefinger against the ridge of his thumbnail. The naked glare of the lightbulb cast shadows as it swayed above the kitchen table. It exaggerated his wife's expression. He thought about leaving. He imagined the sound of the chair scraping the floor, the gape of his daughter's expression as he walked out and the pause before she started her litany of why he was a bad father. It felt as though the walls might close in on them. No. On him. The pressure on his chest morphed into sharp pains in his ribs. Something was going to explode. He stroked the gap between his eyebrows and cleared his throat.

Short Story Sunday: A Suitable Man [Part Three: The Conclusion]

Read the first two parts here and here.