Critiques on the introduction to my short story?
I’m writing a story on an abusive relationship between a husband and wife, but as of now, I only have the introduction (sorry guys, nothing interesting yet). I know I tend to make my introductions too long and too boring, so I’m wondering if I’m doing it again. I’ve written up to the point where the "action" will start in the next few sentences. So, what do you think? Comments?
(P.S. G, this is the story I made reference to in one of my previous questions. I think your ability to paint a picture for the readers would be great in this piece. Let me know if you’re interested in working on this one with me, so I can finish it up and hand it off to you).
(No title yet…)
“Good evening, radio listeners,” I hear a fast, deep voice say from the car radio. “Right now, the time is 5:06 and it’s currently 82°F in Trenton— still warm enough for a quick dip in the pool. For those on their way home from work, there’s an accident at—” I click the radio off, concluding his traffic report before the end of his sentence. I turn my key toward me, the car shuts off and I remove the key from the ignition. Usually, I’m rushing to make it inside before five o’clock, but there’s no use today; I’m already six minutes late. I sit there for a moment, running my fingers over the leather seats, as I relish in my last seconds of serene solitude. It isn’t much, but it’s enough to prepare myself for what’s next.
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I say with a sigh, as I open the car door and close it behind me. On my way to the front porch, I make a pit stop at the mailbox and pick up letters from the credit card companies. They all want one thing— an envelope holding a check marked out to their company —but today just isn’t the day. I close the mailbox, lay down the red flag and make my way up the front lawn— another “no-no,” but it doesn’t matter anymore.
“Good evening, Mrs. Graham,” yells a voice from across the street. “How was your day at work?”
I turn around to see my twelve-year-old neighbor, Porter, sitting on his bike, as he kicks the break down. He’s a sweet boy— never did anything wrong —but my damper mood leaves me longing for silence, isolation.
“Hi, Porter; my day at work was great, thank you. I see you bought yourself that bike you’ve been looking at. My,” I pause, as I examine the bike beneath the boy with the wide eyes and wider smile. “It surely is a great bike.”
“I know, I know! I’m so happy that I finally saved enough money from cutting lawns and walking dogs. My mom wants me back by six, so I’ll see you later, Mrs. Graham.”
I sweep my hair from my eyes to get a better look at the boy who found utopia in the mere purchase on a new bike, “You better hurry up,” I reply. “You don’t want to make Mrs. Anderson upset now.” He nods his head and we exchange our goodbyes before I begin rummaging through my purse for my house key. By now, the clock reads 5:10— ten minutes late.
After locating my house key, I scurry my way up the stairs to the front porch. I open the screechy screen door and lean my head against the wooden door. Nothing; not a single sound. Despite hesitation, I follow through with normal routine: place the key in the keyhole, turn it to the right, do the same for the deadbolt, turn the knob and let myself inside. As I take my small steps into the house, I hold my breath and listen closely for him. Again, nothing; not a single sound. Relieved, I make my way to the living room and place my purse on the coffee table— my third “no-no” for the day. I take a seat on the couch and begin to unwind. I’m home, I’m late, no consequences. A miracle? Perhaps. I close my restless eyes, pull my tense arms behind my head and being to lose touch with my surroundings.
“How was your day, honey?” I hear in the near distance. I rub my eyes, yawn and peer at the man standing before me: Nathan.
