The Summer of ‘98-A Short Story

I remember the summer of ‘98 like it was yesterday. The sun was a relentless tyrant, and the air was thick with the smell of cut grass and dusty sneakers. The neighborhood kids, a motley crew of preteens with scraped knees and boundless energy, spent every waking hour playing street soccer in front of old Mr. Atley’s house. He hated us, and we loved the thrill of annoying him. He was the grumpy Goliath, and we were the plucky Davids, a soccer ball our only sling. The best player on the street was Kevin. He was a year older than the rest of us, with a mop of sandy hair and a cocky grin. He was faster, more agile, and had a way of dribbling the ball that made it seem like an extension of his own foot. He knew it, too, and his constant showboating drove me crazy. I was a decent player, but Kevin always found a way to make me look like a clumsy oaf, stealing the ball from me with a quick flick of his ankle or nutmegging me with a cheeky grin. One day, our game intensified. It was just Kevi...
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The Bickers

 


She places down the teacup with a clatter,

A silent prelude to what doesn't matter.

He clears his throat and rustles at the news,

The stage is set for half-forgotten cues.

It wasn't malice, nor a weighty wrong,

Just simmering resentment, low and long,

About a comment made a week ago,

A careless phrase that set the buried glow.


She mentions bills, and with a feigned surprise,

He sees the ancient battle in her eyes.

He talks of weather, with a practiced drone,

As if the fight were hers and hers alone.

The living room, a field of bitter truce,

Their conversation, careful and obtuse,

Each phrase a coded, passive-aggressive jab,

A tiny cut, a weary, silent stab.


The dog sleeps soundly, used to all the noise,

This rhythm of their small domestic joys

And bitter hurts, a well-worn, common thread,

A tapestry of things they've left unsaid.

At last, a silence, brittle, hard, and thin,

The only sound, the clock's insistent din.

A chasm forms where once a touch would be,

He reads his paper, and she sips her tea.


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