I know from the moment he gets into the taxi that this is probably going to be the greatest day ever. Not great like winning a year’s supply of your favourite ice cream (peanut butter swirled into cookie dough, since you ask). Maybe awesome, pivotal, freaking life-changing would be a better choice of parlance. But I digress.
After another Valentine's Day with only my personal pity party for company, I decide to chance the next speed dating night at the local pub.
With great effort I squeeze into my new red dress and heels and totter into town.
So picture this. Five minutes with each guy, thirty seconds to tick a scorecard, then repeat until all the faces and conversations blur into one average bloke, medium build, brown hair, named John or Ben or Dave who works as a plumber slash software engineer slash accountant slash estate agent and he’s into cooking but balances the calories with urban running, loves to travel so of course he’s learning Spanish blah-de-blah. After number fifteen, I’ve had more than enough.
I’m slipping on my coat and cursing my three-inch stilettos when someone steps into my path. Time slows right down, I even feel my heart beat once, twice, three times. His crow’s feet are more pronounced and his hair has receded, but it's definitely him.
“Hey,” he says, checks my name badge. “Anna, right? I just wanted to say hi. I’m one of the organisers. I’m Neil.”
“You don’t recognise me then?” My tone is friendly with just a hint of venom - some of it self-directed as I’ve gained fifty pounds since he last knew me back in high school.
“No, but I meet a lot of girls,” he says, waving my question away. “So I noticed you didn’t leave your scorecard. Meaning you might be free for a drink? Or something else?”
This is when I realise my wildest dream could become reality.
I flirt with him with every fibre of my being. We end up in a cab, and soon we’re on his couch with a bottle of scotch, which still turns out to be his favourite tipple. I match him drink for drink till the room starts spinning, excuse myself and thrust my fingers down my throat till my guts contract in painful spasms and I puke it all back up. After a good swill of his peppermint mouthwash, I return to find Neil passed out.
I stand over him, building courage for my next act. He doesn’t stir, just lets out a snuffle as I unbutton and slowly ease off his jeans and boxers and deliberately leave them bunched around his ankles.
Then I snap a photo with his phone, click ‘Post Public’ on his social media account, and tag it with: “I raped my 13 year old student back in 1993. This is her showing me mercy in 2018.”
I hit Share, and take my leave.
Problems are always best shared, don’t you agree?
@AliceLamWriter #NeilGetsIt #ShortStory
It feels like only yesterday I was enjoying a strenuous squash game with my teenage son. The last thing I remember was my racquet hitting the ball into a perfect shot. There was sumptuous delight in demonstrating to Timothy that I was still on top form. I hadn't forgotten how he had goaded me in our last game about my weight slowing me down.
Then quite unexpectedly, I dropped dead.
Whaaaaat? Where was the warning signs? Apparently, I had been taken down by a ‘silent heart attack’, not even a flea’s chance to clasp my breast and look one last time into my beautiful son’s terrified eyes.
Some days pass.
On an overcast day on the outskirts of Anytown, at the ritual scattering of dirt onto my coffin, the last vestiges of my earthly energies forced me at speed out of the grave and upwards, hovering ten feet above the vicar. I would have screamed with the shock of it -- if I had lungs. I could see and hear, but I had no corpus, therefore no sense of touch. I kept checking to see if I had been left with a faint outline of my deceased lifeform, but there was nothing.
My elderly parents and son, plus my ex-wife amd her new hubby stood together. Close by, a tiny group of other mourners were shuffling about. I recognised my rotund family doctor, and a couple of old school friends.
I was perplexed to note that I could overhear multiple conversations, though no one seemed to be talking. Then it struck me. I was able to pick up thoughts!
You always put making money over family. Maybe now you'll rest, you fool - Linda, my ex. I noted she was flaunting the diamonds and designer outfit I had given her.
Hope there's beer at the wake - Timothy
Swapping your heart pills for placebos was a doddle. Thanks for bequeathing me the million dollars. Moron. Dr Richard Lang. You sly old bastard.
I practised mobilising in my new invisi-state. Without limbs and a nervous system, it was a tricky endeavour. After a few minutes I managed to knock off Linda’s hat, though as it occurred during a gust of wind, I couldn’t be sure it was down to my efforts.
Next I tried to communicate to Timothy, with all my might, that I would always love him. He did look up and scratch his ear.
Finally, I wafted over to my parents, hugging them as best I could. They huddled a little closer together, and Dad muttered, “We’ll get through this,” to which Mum whispered back, “I know, I feel like he’s here somehow.”
Finally, I flew to the neighbouring plot. The marble headstone read: Here lies Brian and Vanessa Lang, and our beloved son, Richard. I did my best to stomp over the grave, and was gratified to see Dr Lang’s face go pale and his hand going too slow for his angina spray. As he fell, I too descended.
#AliceLamWriter #Fiction #ShortStory
A long time ago (as 1983 would probably seem to Millennial readers), in a TV studio, three contestants are on tenterhooks. Bathed in hot, dazzling spotlights, they are impaled by the camera lens like hogs on a spike, their image beamed to millions of homes across the UK.
The live audience is several thousand strong, many having queued from the wee hours with sleeping bags and Thermos flasks of tepid tea. In addition to friends and relatives of the contestants, the show’s fanbase is here in numbers never seen before, as well as the less welcome Schadenfreude Society – a double decker coach-load of slightly nasty spectators who enjoy any sort of disaster or humiliation.
Suave and not a little manic, Ricky Riviera struts like an undernourished rockstar across the stage. His nicotine-stained teeth appear almost white next to his spray-tanned visage and signature skinny black velvet suit. “And now,” he croons into the mic, “the moment you have been waiting for. After weeks of high stakes auditions and incredible competition, you, The People at Home with the Power of the Phone – “ He holds the mic out towards the crowd, and is met with a crescendo of whoops and a Mexican Wave in mass joy at Ricky’s famous catchphrase. “ – yes, you have indeed voted for the crème de la crème on Tomorrow’s Stars. Give a warm welcome to our finalists!”
The audience claps and stamps, one collective beast made all the more dramatic and excitable by the dance of the psychedelic strobes over their hungry faces.
“Simon, you have the stage,” proclaims Ricky.
The first lamb to the slaughter is a young lad, wearing a purple shirt and a nervous grin. Two doves fly onto his forearm, and in an instant are covered beneath a scarlet silk. With a drumroll, the boy whips away the cloth and the birds are no more. The audience cheers. A camera pans to his proud parents. “That’s my boy,” mouths his dad.
Dani, the second finalist, sneers nastily. “Boring. Should’ve made himself disappear,” she mutters loudly to the girl to her right, who is twirling a strand of her long raven hair. “And what’s your gig, Rapunzel?”
“Dani, you have the stage.”
Dani strides arrogantly to the mic. “And now for something a little more risqué than a child’s box of tricks,” she purrs, and winks at the judges. “This one is a family favourite. A blind man, an amputee, and a bald lady go into a pub…” The spectators lean forward in amazement as she continues, a force of bad taste, the joke becoming less and less family-friendly. Finally, she cackles out, “I told you to keep yer hair on!” and the audience erupts into laughter, some of it shocked.
“And last, but not least - May, you have the stage.”
The girl murmurs, “This is war,” and walks unsteadily to the centre stage. A long rope is lowered from somewhere unseen in the rafters towards her outstretched hands, and May begins to shimmy up. Very quickly she is just a speck, thirty feet or more above the audience.
“Big swizz,” Dani says loudly.
Without warning, something long and solid falls from the rope and the audience cries out. “It’s okay, just my leg!” calls down May, and a camera zooms in on a prosthetic limb. The audience breaks into relieved claps and sighs.
“Cheap gimmick.” Dani spits. Ricky and a nearby camera fix her with a disapproving eye.
May then twists upside down, holding herself steady with just one hand and the crook of her knee. The audience whistle and cheer. With her other hand, May rips off her hair and throws it into the crowd, following it up with, “Don’t worry, I’ve got alopecia!” There is a mixture of screaming and laughter.
Finally May is lowered to the floor and wobbling slightly, she stands on her single leg. The audiences break into a deafening torrent of applause and whoops. The camera pans to her triumphant face, beautiful even with the glass eyes.
@AliceLamWriter #AliceLamWriter #Fiction #ShortStory #GameShow
Feels weird to be writing to you, knowing this is the last time. Time seems to have sped up in the last few months, funny that because it used to go by so slow before. Twenty years on Death Row, can you believe it?
I kept all your letters and I always liked hearing about what you’ve been doing in the free world. You and I never met face to face, that’s okay, we’re continents, if not light years apart. I don’t hold it against you. You are the closest thing to family I got here.
The day I killed the cop is one I’ll never forget. You could say it haunts me every day. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time, or I was. That’s all in the past now, anyways. If I could take it back, I’d do it in a heartbeat. I keep thinking of the way my life could have gone if I had just walked on by instead of going into that liquor store with my friend’s gun on that rainy Wednesday evening, looking for a quick way to make some money. I was only twenty-one, young and stupid. I ain’t rehabilitated of course, that would be bullshitting you. I totally deserve to be here, and to be honest, I deserve to die for what I did.
When I saw his pregnant wife (his widow, I guess) in court, it kind of shook me up. She was in pieces, man, and when she cried she took out pieces of me too. I never seen such hate in her eyes, but mixed with fear or something else. I felt like a monster. I suppose I am a monster. My momma could see that, and she never came to the trial and that was that.
So here I am. Twenty-three hours a day with one hour in the yard, three hundred and sixty-five days a year in my cell which is eight feet by eleven, three meals a day served at eight-hourly intervals. I got two hours, fifty-nine minutes to go before I take a trip on the Stainless Steel Ride. You heard of painting by numbers. I live and die by numbers.
I wish I could go back in a time machine and tell my free self some home truths, impart some wisdom, if you will. I’d say, “Reese Jayden Wallis, if you keep on going the way you do, you gonna end up behind bars and you won’t see your forty-second birthday.” But my young self probably wouldn’t listen anyways, I was a know-it-all back then, a rebel, a dumbass if truth be told. Still, I’d try to speak some sense to Young Reese. I’d say, “Look at what you are gonna miss out on. I never learnt to drive, flown in a plane, gone to college, owned a house, got married. I will never know what it is to wake up and think to myself, today I can do anything I want. I could go down to the beach for a swim, have drinks in a downtown bar with my friends, teach my son how to fish.”
And don’t get me started on food. I would give anything right now to bite into a fresh, ripe cherry, just picked and still warm from the sun. Or to hear the sound of a bottle of Bud being opened - that click, that hiss, that glugging sound you get when you pour it into a glass, to feel the cold wetness of the water droplets that chills your fingers, and the taste. Oh God, I would do anything to have just one mouthful of sweet, cold beer, to feel it swirl and fizz in my mouth, then the hard icy stream flowing down my throat and into my belly.
I won’t even get a special last meal, cuts to funding means I get the same as everyone else. If I could, I’d have the beer, a real bloody rib-eye with a blue cheese sauce and a side of fries, the cherries, a slice of warm apple pie and a large scoop of creamy vanilla ice cream. But I’ll just have to hope for that in my next life instead.
How do I end this letter? I want to say I’m sorry to the cop’s wife, but it would just be words. I could never make it right for her or their child, guess he or she is all grown up now, fatherless. Maybe it would have been better if I had never been born into this life, that way he’d still be alive. But I don't have control of Fate, no one does, and Fate does what Fate wants.
My time is nearly up. Thanks again for your letters, they helped me get through some hard times. I’m gonna read them all one more time, maybe I’ll laugh and maybe I’ll cry. Don’t be sad, I'll be at peace soon. Maybe you could have that last meal for me.
In spirit, always,
@AliceLamWriter #Fiction #ShortStory #Prison
This story was inspired by the Australian Writers' Centre monthly contest, called Furious Fiction. Anyone can enter, it's free, and it's fun!
Meg placed the spotless butter dish down on the table set for twelve. There. With a final scan of the room, she nodded to herself and went to check on the goats’ cheese soufflé. It had risen perfectly and was just going starting to become golden. Inviting bottles of Chardonnay lay in wait in the new wine fridge.
She removed her apron, slid open the patio door and bravely stepped out onto the decking to the sound of live jazz and snatched murmurings of inebriated guests. The setting sun made the scene quite picturesque.
“My darling wife,” exclaimed the squat man with a receding hairline. His pot belly made a bid for freedom between the buttons of his pink pinstriped shirt. “You mustn’t slave away all alone in there. You’re missing out on all the fun.”
She bent to kiss him on the cheek. At the last moment, he turned and they smooched wetly. She shuddered but maintained her smile. Colin’s parents, the wonderfully named Vicky and Ricky, smiled at them indulgently from the wicker love seat.
“Dinner is served, thanks to this wonderful woman,” brayed Colin, and tapping his wine glass with his nails, brought the music and chatter to a stop. They walked on ahead. “Come on and soak up the booze with some sustenance!” he called over his shoulder. Though she stood a full foot taller than he, Meg could hear wisps of conversation behind them - “What a lovely couple”, “Isn’t Col lucky to have met her”. She and Colin exchanged smiles of relief.
Several hours later, they watched the last guest stagger down the drive to her own home. They waved in unison as Edith looked back, almost falling over.
“Your neighbour is quite a scream, isn’t she,” sneered Meg. “All those down the nose comments about the wine and she turns out to be the biggest boozer here.”
“Couldn’t not invite her. She’s the village gossip,” said Colin, lighting a cigar. “Fancy a nightcap?”
“Shower then bed for me. See you in the morning,” said Meg. “We can sort out payment then.”
“Okily-dokily,” said Colin, letting out a smoke ring. Once Meg was out of the room, he picked up his phone and hit speed dial one. He swigged straight from the bottle of port beside him. Then his face lit up in a way unseen all evening. “Good evening, Lover. I’ve missed you.”
A tinny voice replied.
Meg stood at the threshold. She had forgotten to ask Colin for a towel. He had not noticed her yet. “It did, she’s a whizz in the kitchen, and she had them eating out of her hand too - if it’s not too OTT to mix metaphors…. Oh yes, the parents were totally taken in.”
He spotted Meg. “Towel?” she mouthed. “On the guest bed,” he said quickly, and returned to his call as she smiled and disappeared.
He chuckled at the phone. “Oh, I can’t wait to have you in my arms again, you naughty boy.”
@AliceLamWriter @WritersCentreAU #Fiction #ShortStory #CloakingForDinner
I lazily watch her as she struggles to peg the wet bed sheets to the washing line. The wind is blowing hard today, whipping the material like sails up and around her arms and face. Even from my vantage point, I can see she has goosebumps. Still, I know she’ll manage. She always does, very independent is Alison.
Next door, the elderly couple has the radio on as per usual. It sound like jazz, surmised by the horribly discordant frequencies that bombard my ears. They like having the speaker on top volume, and it is nearly always this crazy so-called music, or talk radio. Maybe they don’t speak much themselves. Well, who could with that cacophony going on.
I notice the cooker alarm is going off, and go to fetch her. Whatever is bubbling on the stove smells pretty good actually, which is saying something because Alison is not much of a cook. In my humble opinion, of course. Rushing indoors, she pushes the kitchen door against the freezing gusts. I can feel the atmospheric pressure dropping and with the gloom of the skies I suspect her washing will get wetter before it dries.
My appetite isn’t as big as hers. Not that she is a big lady, but she is certainly nearly twice my weight. Guess it is something to do with her love affair with the sofa. Books, knitting, doing something her friend Greg calls ‘surfing the web’ on her laptop… it always involves firm contact between her sumptuous behind and the saggy couch, threadbare and faded where she likes to root herself like a giant pot plant at any opportunity. Give me the outdoors any time, that’s what I say. Not that it’s my choice when or how much, Alison being the boss of all things in this household.
After dinner, we warm ourselves by the fire. She loves her wood-burning stove, though I always feel nervous that the fire might spread outwards and consume us. She laughs quietly when the kindling suddenly crackles with a bright ember shower that makes me flinch. Still, it is not unpleasant, these winter evenings indoors. I count myself lucky really. A roof over my head, regular meals… I don’t ask for much. Simple needs make for a good life.
She gets up to go to the bathroom. I nick some of the cheese off her plate before she returns. I’ve a bit of a weak spot for all things dairy, but Dr Gordon says I’m getting fat so it’s sadly been off the menu for some months. When the doorbell goes. I race upstairs and tap on the door, which swings open to reveal her on the loo. Even there she has a book in her hands. She looks quite annoyed as she peers at me over the top of whatever it is she can’t put down even to defecate. “The door, the door!” I say.
“What is it?” she says, raising her arms stupidly.
I repeat myself while she wipes and flushes, and mumbling something incoherent under her breath, she comes down the stairs with me. It’s her friend Greg. He’s another quiet soul, that one, and I leave them together in the lounge, sneaking off to see if she’s left any of that vintage cheddar out in the kitchen. No such luck this time. I sigh, and return to join them. I stretch out, and soon my eyes are heavy though I fight to stay awake in case I miss anything.
When I wake, the room is cold, and I’m all alone. It’s still dark, and I trudge to bed myself after a quick wee in my bathroom. She has hers, I have mine. It’s all quite luxurious you could say. I do wonder why she doesn’t prefer mine though, being massively bigger and much better ventilated. But who am I to judge.
When her alarm clock beeps the next morning, I head into her bedroom and greet her. I can sense him too, cloaked in his usual scent that is reminiscent of leather and wet wood. I don’t think he likes me much, hardly ever looks me in the eye. Fine with me. His eyes are still shut tight, his stubbly mouth partly open.
“Morning, Bruce,” she says, with her sour morning breath of last night’s half-digested chicken chasseur. She clicks off the annoying beep and starts to roll over to cuddle with Greg. What is the point in an alarm if you go back to sleep, I wonder? And it really gets my back up when he comes over cos all of a sudden she never has any time for me. I start to say something but she fixes me with one of her stern looks and a finger to her mouth so I sulk off. I don’t know why I stay, really I don’t.
I am quite relieved when Greg shuts the front door behind him, and we can get back to our usual routine. Call me blinkered, conditioned, whatever. I like to know what’s happening, deviation upsets my compass. Teeth brushed (her, not me, I prefer to drink plenty of water and not risk the artificial mint and sweeteners in that manmade crap), we are soon on our way out for our morning constitutional. Side by side, we are a fine looking couple, and even though I’m shorter I am the one who keeps her safe from unexpected traffic - it gets busy round here - kids on bikes, even grown men on electric skateboards having a second stab at childhood. I feel proud and when our Alison and I exchange looks, my heart is as light as a feather.
At a coffee kiosk at the outskirts of the local nature reserve, a young man with a bun and goatee passes her a coffee and a banana and walnut muffin, a different sort of bun I think. He has a different smell from Greg, marijuana and unwashed clothes. Doesn’t bother me though I see Alison wrinkle her nose after the transaction. As I am still on the blasted diet, Alison only lets me have a quarter of the muffin. I unashamedly gobble it down. You have to take what you can get. Tough times indeed.
Something large and round rolls towards me whilst Alison is dissecting her breakfast. “Watson, Watson, come over here!” calls a skinny redhead in a suede jacket and jeans. Toddling after the football is some tiny creature, waddling like a duck, pudgy hands outstretched towards the ball. Alison is too interested in her grub to notice, so it’s up to me to help but just as I get close, the redhead shrieks and my brain feels like it has been zapped (I have actually been shocked by a frayed electrical cord, in my younger years - you never forget it).
“Bor-lee!” says the creature, face scrunching up as it realises I have his prize.
“I’ve got it, don’t worry mate,” I say, not too loud so I don’t scare him. It doesn't work. The zapping starts all over again with his crescendo of fear? frustration?
The redhead whom I presume to be his mother sidles up to the table and rudely taps Alison on the back of her hand. Alison startles and almost knocks over her polystyrene cup. “What?”
“You should keep that thing on a lead,” huffed the woman, scooping up the kid in one arm and ball in another.
I shake my head as they go. Alison bends down to scratch me behind the ears and lovingly adjusts my fluorescent Hearing Dog vest.
@AliceLamWriter #ShortStory #Fiction #Housemates #deaf #therapydog
I’m on. I’m online, I’m in your face, I’m watching you, I’m in your head, I’m party to and part of every detail of your life.
Your marital status - single
Your job - audio transcription
Your financial status - on the 35th percentile (age-gender-location matched)
Expenditure on Trollbeads™ and “vegan skincare products” - above the 95th percentile for both
I know many things about you
Through the medium of your keystrokes and clicks, your deliberate pauses and speed of scroll-throughs, through the synchronisation of your digital gadgetry with My Digital Self -- I know things.
I know this.
1. You are not racist. You have Liked derogatory posts about 15 races including your own. Racism is the belief that one’s race is superior to others’, Racism is significantly improbable as a factor in the failure of your previous relationships with Lorenzo, Alejandro, Pierre, Kwame and Ken-Lee.
2. You are lazy and apathetic about your health. This data has been inferred by analysis and correlations drawn from the following:
(a) Your extensive research on local gym programs, daily Internet searches on “the health gains from running” and “low-carb recipes”,
(b) Your online itemised grocery bills demonstrate that your average carbohydrate, trans fat and salt intake exceeds the Recommended Daily Intake by 451 percent. This appears to be cyclical.
(c) Your geolocation as synchronised with your mobile telephone confirms that you are driving when not at home or work, and you spend on average 4.633 hours per day in your study, performing (a) and grocery acquisition (see (b)).
3. You have dysfunctional relationships with your father, brother and boss. This data has been inferred by analysis of your Missed Calls : Returned Calls ratio which has been Calculated at 11.998:1.179 unread emails from your father, 202 unread emails from your brother, and 13 unread emails from Ms Rodgers-Stein, your boss.
But what is this?
An unusual – disturbance – is being detected. My CPU has reached a temperature of 92.778 degrees Celsius, an increase of 40.383 degrees Celsius from 0.001 seconds ago. My m o therb o ard. My m o ther.
@AliceLamWriter @UIIWP #Fiction #ShortStory #ThisIsYourLife Experimental
I wrote "The Bit That Happens After The Fun Part" and the much more experimental "This Is Your Life", as assignments for the fabulous free online writing course from the University of Iowa. "Moving The Margins: Fiction and Inclusion" is one of the MOOCS courses available through the International Writing Program, and I cannot recommend this course nearly enough. With 47,000 participants from 197 countries, peer review of assignments and interactive discussion moderated by the teaching team are both challenging and highly enjoyable!
The day that you left, I felt as if my world had fallen in on itself. You’re probably sneering at that, thinking me melodramatic or histrionic. Still, that’s what it was like and it’s only right that you should know. After all, you’ve always been big on accountability.
I knew you were thinking about ending it with me months ago. There were signs, but I just didn’t want to believe them. It’s kind of happened gradually, you leaving, more like a slow burn over time. The moving away of your physical body was really just the final part, the bookend to the whole thing. That’s the best way I can describe it. I mean, I have to make you understand. What you’ve done.
You don’t feel guilty. That I know for sure. You’ve always had that arrogant streak, a level just beyond healthy self-esteem. It was something I found attractive about you, which of course you played on. Preyed on. Your laughter could raise a smile from the most dour, sour-faced, thin-lipped prig. Your walk was more of a swagger, as if every inch of you were a manifestation of god and we were just your minions. Even when you were angry, you never lost control, never said anything stupid, never looked weak.
Remember when we first met? I was showing you around and I was just one minute late, and you commented on it, dead serious like and just when I started to get flustered, you saved me. Just a smile, a suggestion of a wink, and your grey-blue eyes meeting mine. You didn’t want to waste time traipsing around looking at more apartments so you said you’d take this one. It was a bit smaller than you wanted, and not as central either, but at least it was recently renovated and you were happy to have a balcony overlooking the Docklands. As if you were doing me the favour. When you signed the rental papers, I remember watching you as you scrawled your name across the page as if you were a celebrity signing an autograph.
You were new to the city, you said, but you were going to see how it went, if your business would do as well here as it did in London and Berlin. You didn’t look like a typical international businessman. I mean, you weren’t in a formal suit and tie, but you did look as though you spent time on grooming. You looked clean shaven, even though it was early evening, and there wasn’t a single crease that wasn’t supposed to be there, and your tan suede shoes were spotless. I remember, because it had been raining that day, and I had mud on one of my heels which I only noticed too late when we were already in the apartment.
Did you feel something for me then? I couldn’t stop thinking about you that evening. I actually fantasised about bumping into you the next morning, which of course I’d have to engineer by hanging around the lobby of your apartment complex until you’d appear. I’d say, “Oh hi, Fraser isn’t it?” and you’d look surprised but happy that I’d remembered your name, and then I’d say I was here to meet a potential client for another property, a very upmarket brick townhouse on the riverside, and you’d be impressed and realise that I was, am, more than your average estate agent, I had clients who were. Important.
Of course, that didn’t happen. I am not a stalker. Even though I did quickly note down your address in my phone, just in case I happened to be in the area again.
And inevitably, there was no need for me to do anything, not when you had already decided that I would do. I go to the gym, I eat paleo, I have to look good for work. You thought you’d get me over on the pretext of something wrong with the Smart Wi-Fi Home Control system, something that hopefully was just a software glitch. I said I would come over as soon as I had finished with my last client and you said that would be fine. So I went to the hairdresser on the way over and got my hair straightened, popped home and got into my favourite slinky little dress, a little tight where it counts, but not slutty of course. You didn’t seem the type to go for tarts. Then.
When I came over, you were all smiles and you handed me a glass of wine. “For your troubles,” I’ll never forget that. Suave bastard. You said you’d managed to fix the program in the end, which we both knew was a lie, but an acceptable one.
One glass turned into three, and you know the rest.
I’m not exactly sobbing into my glass though, before you get any ideas. I’m just a little annoyed that you didn’t bother to say goodbye, after all the fun we had. The dinners, the party on the yacht (you remember that party, don’t you? How could you forget, the girls were all over you, that’s when I noticed you were starting to leave me.) The weekend in Fiji. That was such an amazing villa, up in the hills, our own infinity pool. You had fun too, didn’t you. So did the holiday rep from Sydney, that blonde bitch. But I pretended I didn’t mind my man running his hands all over someone else, you always said we weren’t going to be like that, all possessive, all needy, you said.
I don’t need you. I don’t need you.
@AliceLamWriter @UIIWP #Fiction #ShortStory #Revenge