A Message From The Choir
It was Wednesday night. He was in a deep sleep. She made sure. He drank twice as much as she had and groped about and said he loved her like he always did. But she knew he was a cheating bastard. She read the text before he deleted it. It was disgusting filth. He always pretended it was a message from the Choir.
"Oh dear another Choir Practice" he'd say and leave the house after brushing his teeth, apologising and practising his scales.
It had gone on for months.
The liquid was warm, body heat, just right. She poured it into the centre of his great big ear hole as he snored musically. He only shivered once and resettled. Some of the liquid suspended, glutinous, on the wiry grey hairs sprouting out of his ear. She emptied the bottle, careful not to get it on her fingertips. She had no idea if a bottle of Superglue in the ear would kill him but she couldn't imagine it would do him much good.
She put the note on the kitchen table:
"Back on Saturday my darling. Hope you had a lovely choir practice."
21 May 2014