Gonna write about dreams today?
Of traveling, you mean?
No, the other kind. The ones that come when you sleep.
I did have an interesting one the other day about cutting my own hair…
Yeah, you do have some interesting dreams!
But I am not going to write about dreams to day.
Why not? What else do you have up your sleeve?
Drama. I am going to tell a story of a drama queen. Or should that be drama king?

Flash fiction is an umbrella term used to describe any fictional work of extreme brevity, including the Six-Word Story, 140-character stories, also known as twitterature, the dribble (50 words), the drabble (100 words), and sudden fiction (750 words)

“I hate this thing, ” he announced, staring in distaste at his plate.
She looked up in surprise from where she was serving the others.
“But the last time I made it, you said you loved it…”
Her voice trailed off. He was staring hard at her. Anger was the predominant emotion, but there was a hint of uneasiness too. He abruptly looked away and started eating as if she had ordered him to. His dejected look and slouching shoulders gave just the right impression of a man wronged. Someone who had a nag for a wife, she thought wryly as she continued ladling out spoonfuls on to plates.

He remembers, she concluded, recalling the uneasiness that played on his face. The first time she had made the mixed lentil pulav, he had wolfed it down appreciatively and showered her with praise. That was why she had volunteered to make it at the family gathering. Her husband had liked it immensely. She wanted everyone else to taste it too. How happy she had been going about cooking it, while at the same time managing her cranky toddler who wouldn’t leave her side.

She finished serving everyone at the sitting at table and busied herself with cleaning up her toddler. who was now done with ‘eathing’ as she called it, and was insisting on being given some ‘ithe thream’. Why did he say he didn’t like the mixed lentil pulav? Her thoughts were still on what he said. It wasn’t all that bad. In fact it had come out rather well. The others at the table had asked for second helpings too.

She gave the small bowl with ice-cream to her daughter who proceeded to smear it all across her face, the spoon not exactly going where she intended it to go, her wee little mouth. She couldn’t help but smile at her daughter’s antics. But, why had he said what he had said? She couldn’t stop her thoughts going back to what he said. He hated it. Those were his words. She remembered other places, other times.

Reluctantly she concluded, he hadn’t actually liked it the first time she made the pulav and had pretended to do so because it suited him. Keep her happy, like a puppy dog when in private. And she? Wagging her tail obligingly at all the meaningless praise. Hadn’t she noticed already how he needed an audience whenever he wanted to say something negative to her? Even something as simple as not liking a dish?

She had enough of this, this…drama. Yes nothing but drama. Tonight she was going to give him a piece of her mind. This had to end today. The house was rather full with siblings and cousins and their families. The walls weren’t too thick. But she didn’t care if anyone heard.

© Shail Mohan 2020