The Last Leg

The sizzling mixture of spices and seasoning take over the kitchen. They’ll help give the mince that special kick and really add some flavour. This leg won’t be climbing into bed with anyone, I tell myself – not unless it’s in their stomach. Ha-ha.

‘Now stir in the chopped tomatoes and tomato sauce.’ That’s it. Add the ‘quarter cup of chopped parsley,’ fresh from my vegetable garden – the bit where I’ve buried his eyes.

I know the thirty minutes the recipe says won’t be enough to cook that tired old leg, so I’ll just give it a little longer.

More than eighteen years of my life I gave him. And I did so love him. But when a man doesn’t come home every night cos your bed ain’t got the calling it used to, you’ve got to sharpen your tools, start digging around. It didn’t take me long to find out whose bed he was finding warmer than mine and that was just too much to bear.

‘Heat until bubbling, stirring occasionally’.

Me and Fiona was close. Close enough for me to drop in on her and pick up a few clues, like Jay’s special scent all over her duvet cover, and his washed underpants in amongst the clothes in her laundry basket. I knew she was up to something even before those discoveries. I’m smart. Always have been.





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This is me: home-writer, book-reader, dog-lover and occasional poet. I make this website to share my and my friends texts with You, dear Reader. Please: read carefully, don't be scary, upgrade your mood and be king and leave your comment. :)