Writing Class: Assignment 2 – Confrontational Dialogue

Night 2 of writing class is arriving, so here is my short story. It has been a long while since I have had regular homework due each week so the brain stimulation is good for me!

The assignment: bring a piece of confrontational dialogue…


How Ben and Jerry contribute to the divorce rate


The hammering stops, but there’s no answer. Silence is the only sound coming from the garage now.



“Did you eat my ice cream?”

“I can’t hear you,” he says slowly.

“Did you eat my ice cream?”


“Justin, I know you can hear me and I know you ate my ice cream.”

He stands in the doorway to the kitchen now and leans his arm on the door frame. “Why do you always blame me?” he asks, probably because he’s still trying to anticipate how much trouble he’s in.

“Because we are the only two people who live here,” I sigh and I rub the roundness of my growing belly. “At least for the next four months.”

“So it’s true. Ice cream and pickles,” he laughs at me. “I always thought it was a joke.”

“No. Not a joke and not true. I freaking hate pickles. And I just want my Cherry Garcia.” I know there are tears in my eyes, but I can’t control them. “There were four bites left and I was saving it for tonight.”

Justin pulls on his goatee and just stares at me this time. I can tell he doesn’t know what to say.

“So, did you eat my ice cream?” I ask again, because if he would just admit it, my hormones would probably calm down a notch.

“Can’t we talk about pickles again?” he tries.

“No! That word, I can’t even say it. It makes me want to throw up.”

“Okay, try this,” he pulls me in close with those warm, thick arms that attracted me to him on our first date so long ago. The hug feels good and I relax a bit, but then he gives me a cheesy smile and whispers into my hair, “Can you tell if I’m happy to see you or if I just have a pickle in my pocket?”

That word. I feel my throat tighten with acidy hotness. Then I break out of his hug and lean over the dirty dishes in the sink and hurl. Chunks of chewed chicken salad coat the sink and drip off my chin. I try to say, “I warned you,” but on the next dry heave my forehead bangs against the stainless faucet. Behind me I hear him opening a drawer and he hands me a paisley dish towel. I wipe my face and rinse my mouth with cool water. By the time I turn around, he’s already at the door with his truck keys dangling from his thumb.

“Cherry Garcia?” he asks cautiously.

“Hell no. Now I want Chunky Monkey.”







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