Fiction · Flash Fiction · How to be British · Language

Row

Thursday, June 29, 2017. Daily Brit Wit.

Row: 

Noun, informal

BRITISH for argument; a noisy acrimonious quarrel; a serious dispute; a loud noise or uproar.

Verb, informal

Have a quarrel.

"He blinks rapidly at the cloth in his hands, not necessarily out of confusion or incomprehension on how the semantics work. He knows how to tie a scarf. He just doesn't know how to tie a scarf properly.

He exhales, frustration and anger colliding for the dominant emotion swimming in his veins. His hands slip and tangle in cotton.

Then the muttering starts, moving away from running commentary in his subconscious to strings of colourful dialogue. Thankfully, his more coherent repetitions are able to be repeated.

'Oh, come on,' he gripes. If his hands were free, he'd probably do something melodramatic like tossing them upward in the air.

The online video continues to play on a loop from his laptop and he glares at it, as if the device could read his mind and shut up automatically. Or even burst into flames; that would be stellar, too.

He tries to recall precisely how his fingers ended up in such a colossal web in order to backtrack. Eventually, the material gives way and he heaves a sigh.

Only for the material not to flutter toward the floor, but catch his glasses frame.

'How!?' He sputters, pawing madly at the cotton and praying to every known deity he won't swipe off his glasses and send them flying to an early demise.

And that's around the time his fiancée finds him.

Her cackling (because seriously no other word is appropriate when her head is thrown back like so and the sound envisions mythical witches performing devious potions) startles him. He swore he was home alone when the video started fifteen minutes ago. She is supposed to be at work.

His head whips around fast enough to prompt a beheading or whiplash and his glare shifts from the computer screen to her quivering body slumped against their doorjamb. She doesn't burst into flames, either. Pity.

Royally flustered now, he carelessly chucks the tangled objects, though thankfully on the bed. It should also be noted it misses the laptop.

His fiancée calms marginally and bites down on her lower lip as a physical sign she is attempting to rein in her hysterics. Their gazes meet, mocha on steel-azure. They slump nearly simultaneously.

She pushes off the wall and heads toward him, after he's collapsed on the edge of the bed. She pauses the video then closes the lid before standing cautiously between his knees. He refuses to look up, more than ready to celebrate his pity-party-for-Seth without a plus-one.

'Hey,' she croons, and he notes out of his peripherals she shuffles closer a split second before her hands cup his chin and cheek. She forces his head to move and he doesn't fight her. Her eyes dance in laughter but her smile is gentle.

He squints at her.

She notices. Then leans over him and plucks up the tangled items and source of his waning frustration. Her fingers tease until she's managed to subdue glasses and scarf into submission. He basically blinks and she's got the items doing her bidding.

She grins and situates his glasses back on his face. 'Better?'

'Thank you.'

'Finished with your epic row with that scarf?'

The flare of indignation pops into being again and he's livid. Her laughter is the kerosene doused on top. 'I was not fighting,' he sneers, 'with the scarf.'

She straightens out the cream material and deftly loops it round his neck. 'Didn't California teach you how to tie scarves?'

'Sorta,' he admits.

'At the very least,' she continues and wraps the cotton snuggly twice more before patting it. 'You grew up in Oregon, right?' He nods. 'Shouldn't you know the basics of scarf tying?'

Despite himself, Seth feels his lips tug into a full-blown, teeth bared, and gums showing smile. 'I moved to LA when I was fifteen, Lou. I had no reason to maintain such a skill.'

'Well,' she giggles and steps back to admire her finished handiwork. 'Now that we've moved to Kent, I think you're going to iron out that skill. Your one knot won't keep you warm, sunshine. And you're extremely lucky I didn't drag you to Derbyshire or elsewhere in the Peak District.' She refers to her hometown.

He waves her off, more interested in decoding the complicatedly snug material at his throat. How did she do it?"

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2 thoughts on “Row

    1. πŸ˜‚πŸ˜… thanks, Misty!! I’m not sure, actually! I haven’t had the ambition to write something that long in a good while. The closest I keep coming is writing short stories/novellas. Also, the mini stories will continue to get longer AND I may have a surprise in store the closer we get to 100 words. πŸ˜πŸ˜‡ Thanks you so much for reading!!! ❀️

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