Drama Practice

You just don’t under­stand me!” Janette wailed. She turned and slammed the oven door shut, then turned back and hurled, first the casse­role of gratin pota­toes, then the triv­et, and final­ly the pothold­ers across the kitchen, over the break­fast counter into the liv­ing room, where they land­ed, with var­i­ous effect, on the cream-col­ored silk couch.

God, I sound like a char­ac­ter in a day­time TV melo­dra­ma, she thought. She pulled a cig­a­rette from the open pack on the back of the stove, thought about light­ing it, then stuck it behind her right ear instead. She was get­ting pret­ty con­fi­dent with these out­bursts; one of these days she would get up the nerve to do it when he was actu­al­ly home.

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