Warning: Parts of this story are explicit and you may find disturbing. Discretion is advised.
“It’s the only thing I know how to do well.”
He was swallowing too much, she’d be able to see he was lying. He knew how to do lots of things. She knew that. But he didn’t want to do lots of things. He wanted to do one thing.
She was sitting before him, arms crossed across body, slouched over the chair at such a peculiar angle, he wasn’t quite certain whether she was glowering or simply uncomfortable.
“Donald, it’s about time you found something you can do well at. Strumming a guitar in the market square just isn’t a career. Do you want to live or not?”
It was a threat. Panic seized him for a moment, before he realised she’d never really left before, only threatened to every time he came back from strumming his guitar in the market place.
“I met someone in the market today.”
She sighed. He met someone in the market everyday. Infact, he met several people a day. Yesterday, he had met three old ladies, a little girl with floppy mittens, and a half-eaten boiled sweet.
“I met about five-hundred people at the check-out today.”
As always, he ignored the comment, and pursued his memories with brow-furrowed vigour. “Mmmm. She was a lovely old sausage.”
“What?!”
But he’d sunk into a reverie now, so Mrs. Mildly left him to re-dream the day, parked herself in the living room, and pressed a button on the remote control. The wrong button.
“WHAT!? Good God, the Milkman’s slipped again.”
Mrs. Mildly tutted, and pressed the MUTE button.
“I’m sorry, dear. It was just the telly. The Milkman only comes in the morning.”
A thought occurred to her.
“Who’s a lovely old sausage, dear?”
Dear Hrumphed and farted, and slapped his slippers against the floor in mild irritation. “Don’t fuss. It’s nothing special. But I met some lovely… "
“I’m NOT fussing, dear. I just want to know who it was that you thought was a lovely old sausage.”
Dear Hrumphed again, slapping his slippers against the floor louder this time, to register his extreme disapproval. His slapping subsided after a while, and he mumbled a reply. “My lunch. A Hot-Dog, Mustard. Bloody weak, too.”
Mrs. Mildly felt the back of her head begin to itch, and she scratched it. The itch persevered, as did her scratching finger. The itch whizzed to her scalp and then to her forehead, down to her nose, and finally settled at the base of her breast-cleave, where she dared not pursue. Then she gave a little wiggle as she shivered up and down her back. She was close to tears.
“Donald , " she managed, with a voice straighter than her back, “Donald… You’ve done it again, haven’t you!”
Donald was silent from the Dining room. There was nothing to do now. She would prise all details out from him shortly. There was nothing he could do. She knew every method, every nuance of his personality. He was helpless, and for the first time in ten years, Donald wanted to make love to his wife.
Mrs. Mildly sat herself down upon the lino, and wrapped her arms around her legs, drawing them close to her body. Ten years ago she had done the same, but she had managed to rest her head on her knees then. Today, she would need Donald’s help to stand again. Tomorrow, they would be lovers once more. Tonight, she felt a cold shiver down her back and across her neck, tonight they would make love again. And tomorrow they would be lovers.
“Donald , please help me off the floor. I need you to lift me up, Donald… Donald…. DONALD! " She actually wept now, and felt surprised at the tears and how wet they were. The warm salty taste comforted her more than any embrace.
“Sheila. I’m so sorry, Sheila. She was so pretty. She chatted so long to me. She liked my guitar playing. She asked me to play Mull Of Kintyre. She was so nice to me, Sheila. I’m sorry…”
When she looked up to his eyes, she could see the tears there, and when he stretched out a hand to her, she took firm hold, and with a short whizz of the kitchen, was burrowed in his arms.
“I’m so sorry Sheila. I never thought it could happen again. After last time… I’m SO SORRY… " and he burst into tears so that it was she, Sheila who held him in her arms and told him that she was sorry, and all would be alright, and that tea could wait.
She lay down on the bed, naked, and waited. The lights were so dim, she could see only in wildly fluffy-coloured drabs of silhouettes, from where one shape, her husband, Donald , disturbed all the other wildly dancing darkness-sprites with his naked form, so that she could only wait.
Soon, she felt cold steel slide against her breasts; over her lips; the tip of the blade prickling her cunt. He probably didn’t have it in him anymore, but anyway, she said “Take me,” and glanced only momentarily when the blade hit the floor. Ten years ago, she had gasped when she had thought of those in which it had been.
- Simon Huggins, 16th November 1992