Scene Study: Fiction

Written by Theresa Baughman. Copyright 2025, all rights reserved. This text may not be copied or used for any personal or professional use.

“Fuck no.” She lights her cigarette.

“My house burned down when I was eight.” The sentence comes out thick and milky through a massive exhale of smoke.

A thousand questions spring into Hadassah’s mind. How? Did her parents die? Where did she live after? What about her siblings? Does she even have any siblings? 

“Shit.”

“They died. It's okay, everyone wants to know. Honestly it was so long ago now it's just easier to say it, you know? It's a really boring story. My mom smoked in bed, I guess there's a reason they tell you not to do that.” She lit another. “It was just the three of us, you know, so after they patched me up at the hospital I went to live with my aunt. She raised me but she's more like a big sister.”

Hadassah thought about her little sister. She couldn't imagine living with her anymore now that they were both grown.

Anya was leaning forward in her chair tapping the ash of her cigarette, her long red hair in perfect bouncy waves hanging dangerously close to the edge of her wine glass. Pink shimmery gloss staining the dregs of Pinot Noir. Hadassah kicked off her flip flops and stretched her tan legs out long on the lawn chair. She wiggled her toes. Even with her rated-to-block-out-a-nuclear-explosion sunglasses she had to squint with her hands making a shade on her forehead. “Should we get another bottle? He's late.” As soon as she said it, the post truck came rambling around the corner and halted, screeching, as a faded blue Volvo cut through the incoming traffic towards the highway exit lane. “Oh my god,” Anya said “That's not him. He must have taken a different route today. What a chickenshit.”