“We’re just in a bit of a funk, Brad.” Tish smiles at her husband across the kitchen table, a stack of bills between them. She goes to the stove for the kettle, refills their mugs.
“This is more than a funk.” Brad hurls the bills from the table. They sail, unpaid, unpayable, though the air before settling on the floor.
Tish laughs and Brad, loving the merriment of her voice, is encouraged. He stands and pauses to take a sip of his watery tea before proceeding to stomp on the bills, arranging his face in the best frown he can muster.
“We’re never going to get them sorted.”
“Who cares?” Brad is having a ball, jumping up and down on the kitchen tile that Tish spent all morning cleaning before the real estate agent came to see about listing their house. “This is for the gas bill.”
Tish stamps. “The mortgage.”
Brad, perhaps inspired by the Olympic ice dancers, sets himself a-spin, whirling up bills beneath his feet. “Student loans.”
“The prissy real estate agent.” Tish, momentarily forgetting her age, lets loose some confusion of a karate move into the air, which lands against the wall, knocking the picture of the great economist Franz Sherman, from its hook. It lands on its back, a crack jagging across the watery eyes of the family patriarch and author of eighteen investment books positing complicated theories everyone pretended to understand. “I never did like that picture,” Tish says. She glares at Franz. “Never liked you, either. Selfish bore.”
Franz stares impassively at the ceiling. He shows no signs of being in pain.
“What would he think of us?” Brad lifts the frame.
Too late” The glass falls from the frame and Franz floats to the floor, chased by several stacks of hundred dollar bills, neatly bound.
Brad looks at his wife, eyes wide. “I always did love this picture.”
Tish’s merry laugh falls like broken bits of glass across the floor. “Me too.”
This was written for this week’s Trifecta Writing Challenge. The word was funk.