Trina's jaw ached; it stopped her smile getting to her eyes.
It wasn't headed there anyway, just a well worn reflex, learned long ago.
Her bruises lingered, purple blossoms George gave as he took her dignity.
Not that George was looking, glassily focussed on the television, he shovelled in steak like a stoker seeking promotion.
Trina pushed food round her plate, watched George inhale his dinner, and tried to remember the frost setting in.
One day the fine words and flowers had dried up like autumn, and she'd woken up next to a cold, miserable, asshole.
Of course, he was still a rich asshole.
That thought kept her warm as she seasoned his fillet and stirred the strychnine into the potatoes dauphinoise.
Later, as they slept, his convulsive thrashing broke her nose, crushed her larynx, and they expired breathlessly, together.
No comments:
Post a Comment