A flash fiction special for Macabre Monday. Want to read more? I’ve linked Macabre Monday to the bottom of the page.
Monotony
Cook it, eat it, wash it up. Cook it, eat it, wash it up.
Clean it, use it, clean it again. Clean it, use it, clean it again.
Put it away, get it out. Put it away, get it out.
Cook it, eat it, wash it up.
And so it goes every single day.
I look at him and wonder if he goes through this daily rhythm. He disgusts me. He wears the grease and curry stains on his rounded shirt until I can clean them off. I’m surprised that I don’t also wipe his arse.
I chew bees for breakfast while he enjoys his freshly cooked eggs. He leaves his plate there, abandoned. The fairies will clean it up.
If he had a daily rhythm, my guess is that his would be:
Eat it, eat it, eat it.
Use it, use it, use it.
Get it out, get it out.
Take as long as you want. Take even longer. No one else needs the toilet anyway.
He reads his paper, barely glancing in my direction as I talk about how the day has been for me. The occasional “mhm”. I tell him about the kids, the school, the neighbours. It’s just “Mhm.”
Fine. It’s always fine. He’s happy with “fine”.
Cook it, eat it, wash it up. Don’t eat too much though. You know, don’t, it’s not good for a woman to…
I’m starting to look like my mother, or so he says. He says I look like my mother. He doesn’t like my mother. My mother is fat. He doesn’t want me to be fat like my mother. I don’t want to be sad, like my mother. I don’t want to be unhappy, like my mother. I would like to be fat out of spite.
A friend from the W.I asked me to go to the cinema with her. I felt special. Maybe her husband ignores her too. Maybe we can be fat together and eat as much popcorn as we want. I would like to have a friend. I would like to eat popcorn and laugh and actually talk to someone and have them talk to me.
“You sure you want to wear that?” He asks as I check myself in the porch mirror.
Dig it, move it, dig it up.
Dig it, move it, dig it up.
Roll it, roll it, let it drop.
Lift it, drop it, lift it, drop it.
Pat it. Pat it. Pat it down.
The soil is still under my fingernails. I scrub it away with the nail brush, laughing hysterically with the running water as my backing track. What have I done? What have I done?
If anybody was looking, I'll just tell them that the dog died.
I’m more of a cat person anyway.
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