Ryhme Scheme #2

“Trash!  No good piece of  useless    fucking

trash!”

This is what  he bellows after her
as the screen door slams
echoing

certain finality

“Shit. My purse is still inside,” she says
to No'one in particular, still fuming
pausing

What did the purse contain anyway...
a few dollars; her

lipstick; the keys to her car (‘their’ car)
– his car if she left without it –
her credit cards and driver’s license

“Damnitalltohell...”

She curses

turning on her heels
throwing open the door she'd closed
with less finality than intended
expecting to find him standing there
where she left him
fumes
spewing from the cavities
of his somewhat mismatched & misshapen ears

only
in his absence wondering where the bastard went
then just as quickly

"Why/ do I care...
Where’s my fucking purse..."

That smell, it’s odd...

The thought barely registers
before the explosion sends her sprawling in a less-than-graceful face plant
onto the carpeted floor

...how long had it been since she'd vacuumed?

The house is on fire.

Lyrics from an old nightclub mix flit across her semi-conscious:
                                “The roof, the roof, the roof is on fire…”

“And so it is,”
she says chuckling softly to herself

wondering

at the appropriateness of
her  unbridled

Laughter

..