©opyright, as ever, belongs solely to me, the author. Comments most welcome.
NOBODY DIED, DID THEY?
When I showed you the inventory, missing treasures highlighted, I first supposed you’d borrowed them, had forgotten to return them to the shelves. But your darting kohl-rimmed eyes told a different tale.
Blind rage replaced numbing shock and I thrashed you with my latest copy of Book Collector – packed as ever with valuations and Wanted ads – till it fell in tatters from my aching hands. You cowered in a corner, cloaked in your oh so silky copper hair; hair you’d wrapped around my waking cock only that morning, like a Waterhouse siren in a pornographic shampoo ad.
By the time I’d finished vomiting, you’d fled. I heard your car accelerate away, the silver sporty job you’d begged for, couldn’t live without. That Frostrup growl had me reaching for the bank cards every time.
As you sit here now – taped to a dining-chair, napkin stuffed in your lipsticked mouth – it seems incredible that when the phone rang I prayed it was you. Oh yes, part of me longed to plunge these shiny blades into your throat – see how they glitter in the candlelight? – yet another, bigger, part wanted you back.
But it wasn’t you; it was your mother: “All this fuss over a few old books," she said. "For heaven’s sake, nobody died, did they?” When she paused to suck on her cigarette, I heard you snigger in the background.
After a long, punch-drunk moment I feigned acquiescence, remorse. And you thought I’d welcomed you home with open arms. Hah!
Now, now, stop panicking; I’m cutting tape not flesh. Now I’ve got what I need to keep me warm at night, you can piss off. And stop that crying. You’re no Sinead O’Connor, but it doesn’t look half bad.
© Rosie Rose
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