The Last Leg

“I’m in the kitchen,” I say, hanging her coat on the banister, and let her lead the way. Her jeans, as usual, hug her size fourteen body tightly, and I feel untidy, with my tracksuit bottoms and baggy tee shirt, smelling of well – lasagna.

She offers to help.

“Oh, no. That’s okay,” I start saying. “Well, maybe you can make the salad.”

She says she’ll make her special dressing – the one she knows I’m fond of.

I open the bottle of wine. It’s red. I pour her a drink without asking cos I know she’ll never refuse it. It’s juice for me. I never drink – not anymore. I let her sip her wine while I get the salad things out of the fridge. She stands opposite me at our breakfast bar and watches as I layer the baking dish with stew, noodles and a sprinkling of cheese.

She’s wearing a pale purple top, with a knot at the cleavage. I notice the top of her boobs ‘re all exposed. She wants to know how I’m coping. We haven’t seen much of each other for a while – since Jay’s disappearance. I pretend not to notice her taking large sips of her wine in between chopping up the yellow and green peppers.

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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. :)