story: Snapshot

Snapshot
by Dallas Shaw - jadan2904@aol.com

            We were late the moment you walked through the door. Unexpected work kept you an hour longer and traffic another twenty minutes. You need a shower, I can't find my other black pump and I hop around, gathering your clean socks, underwear and a tie. I know now is not the time. Everyone is waiting and dinner is likely over, but the cake will not be cut until we arrive. Your father would never allow it. You are his pride and joy, he will wait until sunrise tomorrow for you to sit with him and help blow out the candles. I know this, and still I feel playful.
            I wait to hear the toilet flush, water spray and the sound of splashing as you wash your hair. I sneak in holding a Polaroid camera, my one bare foot slides on the tile. It takes every ounce of restraint not to laugh as I push aside the curtain, checking to see that your back is turned. I lean part way in, center you body in the box and call your name.
            Water is everywhere, my dress is soaked, you reach for the camera and my arm, but I am too quick. The naked, cat and mouse dance that follows leaves us both breathless and drenched.
            Another thirty minutes and we are ready to walk out the door. My dress has been changed, eliminating the search for the shoe; your tie is crooked but brings out the blue in your eyes. I tell you everyone will be furious over the wait, you say it doesn´t matter, that your dad will understand. I think you are right; your playful nature is a gift he shares. We decide to tell him once your mother leaves the room, knowing he will break our confidence later, over coffee, as he always does.
            We are still laughing over the picture, over our play fight, over the time, when the phone rings. You tell me to forget about it. You say, we have to go, let them leave a message, but I snatch up the receiver anyway. I feel the blood leaving my face. Tiny fingers of ice close around my throat, I can barely breathe. Your face is impatient; your hand is on the doorknob. I tell you, your father has died.

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bio: Dallas Shaw is currently a creative writing student, working towards her bachelor's degree while raising two children and living in a far-too-quiet, suburban neighborhood.