This is the 83rd installment of a 100-day challenge to write a new vignette every morning.
The door slammed on the watermelon. Flinching, Kyle dropped three of the bags in his hands. He dropped a fourth while trying to recover the fallen three. The lid popped off the orange juice and apples rolled everywhere and, somewhere, glass broke.
Kyle looked at his mom, who stood near the refrigerator. She had frozen with her back to him, but he could see her fingers curled around the countertop, gripping so tightly that her knuckles whitened.
“What was that you said,” his mom began, “about not needing to take a second trip?”
He chased down the apples and tried to mop up the orange juice with a shirt he’d left on the kitchen barstool—a shirt she’d asked him to clean up two days ago. His mom turned and waved her hands at him. It took Kyle a moment to realize that meant stop.
“No,” she said finally. “Don’t—Don’t—Just—”
She commandeered the intact bags and brought them to the counter. They landed with a thunk. She didn’t look at Kyle as she muttered about the imminent arrival of the barbecue guests.
“I can start cooking if you need to go back to the store,” Kyle offered. He thought of burnt toast and carrot sticks and felt relieved when she turned him down.
“Nope. You break it, you buy it. You go back to the store.” She tossed him the car keys. “Just don’t treat the car like you treated that watermelon.”
Miles Away 