He came home stinking of garlic and onions, and that’s when I knew. He’d been with her again, at that little Mama Mia café just off Judd Street in the center of town. He didn’t think I knew, but I did, and I knew who she was, too.
The little tramp.
As if he could hide the hooded eyes that took their time grazing over her body whenever she entered his office. He never looked at me like that, and I’m his wife! For better or worse, we said. Til death do us part, we agreed. Death-now that can be arranged, and who would blame me?
This week’s #Friday Fictioneers is now hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Inspiration for this flash is the picture above.
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