#7 Like Tinfoil
She was laughing at him. He saw that now.
They’d already finished their tacos. He added the latest piece to a pile of thin tinfoil strips on the table and looked up at just the right time to see a condescending smirk on her face. “What?” he asked.
Had the bitch been laughing at him the entire time?
“Nothing,” she said.
Oh, no. It was never nothing with her. Everything was something.
“You’re laughing at me,” he said.
She said nothing.
He liked tinfoil. The smooth, perfect sheets from the roll in the box. The way it crackled when he pulled it out. So thin, even a child could tear it.
Yet, it was metal. He was tearing metal.
It made him feel strong.
Silence followed them out to the car. He went through his usual routine, and even took more time than usual, just to see if he could detect another snort, another smirk. Some sort of sign. He saw none, but he knew it was there, just below the surface.
It always was.
Her face registered surprise when he leaned across her, left hand still on the wheel, right arm across her lap and pulled the lever on the door.
One good, hard shove on her shoulder was all it took to send her out. He watched in the side-view mirror as her body tumbled what must have been ten yards before coming to a tangled, crumpled halt on the shoulder of the road.