The words over at Three Word Wednesday are cajole, recluse and temper.
His temper had got the better of him again, this time at the corner convenience store where some snot-nose decided to make a comment behind his back; he turned and took three of the kid’s teeth out with a single punch.
Sixty days in county this time, group therapy, anger management, bla, bla bla.
A recluse by design – the cancer that pulsated in his pancreas the reason – he’d stop by the corner market for smokes, milk and never would meet her gaze.
With her eyes, she cajoled; chocolate pools where most men would happily drown. Not him. He was a hard-ass, a hard-case, bad-ass. Dead man, walking.
He placed two hardpacks of smokes, a quart of whole milk on the chipped counter and avoided those eyes, her crooked smile made more sensual by a small scar. He looked instead at the wad of money he dug from the front pocket of his jeans.
She ran a hand over her hip, jutted slightly and searched for his eyes. He tossed a wad of crumpled bills at the counter, waited for the change. He swiped it up quickly, went for the plastic sack as her hand intercepted his.
She turned it at the wrist, palm up, open. And in it, she placed a daisy.
Change bounced across the tiled floor as he gripped the counter; his neck veins popped as the red rose into his sallow cheeks.
He met those eyes; she smiled.
Sobs like hiccups caught in his throat; he swallowed, hard, and the wails came, innocent and incessant as an infant.
“Shhhhhh, it’s be OK,” she said. “It’ll be alright, you’ll see.”