I am bilious, she thought. It sounded Victorian. She pictured a ball gown and jewels, a dance, a D’arcy. Pursing lips she moved away from the sounds of his breakfast massacre, back into the kitchen where he thought she belonged.
How did she end up housewived, jackknifed into someone’s suburban bliss? She spread bread with disdain, and slathered mayonnaise and spite over the perfect white squares. She sliced it four ways.
Cheese and mayo were for Wednesdays. Wedded day slid into deaded day, dreaded day followed dead-end day.
Every day, a day closer to death.
Sara Crowley's novel in progress - "Salted" - was shortlisted for the Faber Not Yet Published Award, and she is the winner of Waterstone's Bookseller Bursary. Her short fiction has been published in a wide variety of places including Pulp.Net, 3:AM, elimae, Dogzplot, flashquake, Litro, Dogmatika and FRiGG. She blogs at A Salted and appreciates you taking the time to read this.