What the hell do you mean?

By Pete Jennings   Copyright 2018

“What the hell do you mean?”

“If you don’t know by now I have given up explaining.”

Typical comeback from her when she can’t be arsed to argue. Just leave the statement there to fester then. I got out of the chair and took a walk down the garden. Brown leaves, cat crap and the evidence of another failed plan to do something constructive. I frowned, and lashed out at a marauding moth, and got even grumpier when I missed. Sod it, I’ll go to bed early for a change.

She came up much later. I pretended to be asleep while she slid her icy body between the duvet and two toned fitted sheet. Her choice obviously.  Another not so subtle change she thought she’d sneaked in bellow the radar. Why are women’s bodies always cold? They panic about fat then complain about keeping warm all the time. I rested my hand heavily on the edge of the duvet on my side, to make sure she didn’t hog it in the night.

The uneasy armed truce continued at breakfast. “Have we any marmalade left?”

“No, you got through that last jar in no time. Better get some when you go shopping.” She knows I hate food shopping. That night on the way home from work I got some, the dark chunky stuff she doesn’t like. I also chucked in some Red Gloucester cheese, bourbon biscuits, tinned rice pudding and a pepperoni pizza she wouldn’t like, as well as the usual weekly stuff.

She didn’t say anything as I unpacked the carrier bags, just sniffed with attitude and avoided meeting my eyes. Hers were pink and puffy, just like the colour co-ordinated pillows.

Pete Jennings

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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