Walls of Our Own Building

Evan has a new lease on life, but it's an expensive one.

Evan sat in his car looking out over the beach into surly ocean. It was too cold to surf, and that was a shame; he knew the only Zen he could find was out there inside a tube.

His phone beeped; it was a nasty message from Hilda. Only ugly girls should be named 'Hilda,' he thought. But Hilda was that furthest thing from ugly you could get— at least on the outside.

When you're done doing your little Dingdong Deliveries or whatever, bring some food home. I'm hungry.

No 'please.' No 'babe,' 'hon,' or even 'asshole.' Just demands; just like always. Evan dropped the phone, disgusted. He pulled his hoodie around him against the chilly evening and leaned back against the windshield.

He watched a wave curl up and pummel the shell-strewn sand. It sounded as angry as he was. Evan knew what would be on his phone when he picked it up: snotty texts from Hilda, Doorbell Diner orders, and email after email of job rejections. "No one hires ex-cons," his P.O. had told him. "Too bad: find a job or go back inside where they'll give you a job."

Evan shouted at another snarling wave: "She's the reason I was in there in the first place, damn it!" But the wave didn't care any more than Hilda did.

At least she waited for you, he thought ironically.

He slid off the hood of the car and picked up his phone, brushing it off. He decided he was done for the day. He'd pick up something from Tonniello's, Hilda's favorite. They'd eat and she'd bitch. They'd watch TV, and she'd complain. They'd go to bed and she'd trap him all over again.

Evan put the car in drive and sighed, knowing he was driving back to prison after all.

NOTES: ▶︎

Word Count: 300
Submitted for "Daily Flash Fiction Challenge" 
Prompt: Use the words cold, doorbell, food