The Irony of It

The onions jumped on the cutting board as I slammed the knife down. My husband looked warily up from his paper.

“Everything okay?” he asked.

“Fine,” I groused. I threw the onions into the pot and gave them a violent stir.

“Obviously, the onions don't think so,” he said as he hid behind the newsprint.

I sighed, “Sorry. I'm just frustrated at this writing assignment.”

A cautious eye peeked over the newspaper. “What's the assignment?” he ventured.

“'It's a long story,'” I said.

“Well, okay, I get that,” he said as he turned a page. “I do have time.”

“No, sorry,” I said, stirring the onions again. “That the prompt. 'It's a long story.' I have to write something using that phrase, and it's just not coming tonight.”

“Ah, I see,” he said. “Why not write about your dad? Didn't he always say that?”

“Not really,” I answered. “What he said was, “To make a long story tedious and monotonous.'”

“That's right,” my husband said as he put down the paper and stood. He handed me the can opener. “Smells good.”

“Thanks,” I said, taking the opener from him. “I'm really stuck on this one. Part of it is that I can't get past the irony of the situation.”

“Irony?” He asked from the depths of the refrigerator. “Are we out of diet?”

“There's more out in the pantry,” I said as I struggled to cut the lid off the can. “I have to use three hundred words or less. OUCH!”

“'It's a long story' but short,” he mused as he wrapped my now-bloodied hand in a towel. “What did you do? Hit an artery?”

“Probably,” I sighed. “You think they'll let me write as I get stitches?”

Word Count: 300