Week 12: A Risk At Writing

Dust was kicked up then slowly began to settle as the car came to a grinding stop. The middle of the woods, on a dirt road, secluded in the waning hours of the day seemed like a romantic place to stop. Or was it? A casual passer by, if there were such a thing this far into the woods, would hear the sound of raised voices coming from the car. An argument for certain but over what? The man's deep baritone would drone from the confines of the metal box on wheels then raise to a roar that proverbially shook the windows and was joined by another, more feminine voice. Soothing, placating, the argument dies for a few moments then the door to the car slams open, the metal creaks loudly in protest. "You don't get it." his voice is a growl of frustration and rage that bleeds into the surrounding stillness. With an angry jerk he steps out of the car, the touch of his boots to the ground brought a puff of dist and scrape of gravel. On the other side of the car the passenger side opens and she steps out and turns to look over the car. "You're right I don't. I don't know why you'd want to go out west for two weeks." Her voice is restrained with emotion. She watches as he walks to the edge of the dirt road and stares off into the woods. "I haven't seen my friends in two years." The growl has faded from his voice, replaced with a defeated, almost tired, tone. With shoulders slumped he turns to face her and leans against the car door. "Can't it wait?" her voice is pleading, a call for calm and reason. But somehow, she knows it won't be quite enough. He shakes his head and falls back into the driver's seat with a heavy sigh. "Fine. I won't go."