Sparks flew up into the night, blooming like a flower as he threw her old books onto the bonfire. He thought back over the last few hours. Finding her asleep on the bed, the sun slanting through the curtains. He’d left her to rest.
She’d come into the kitchen for coffee but barely noticed him. Just muttering fine when he asked he if she was OK.
She put the radio on, one of those inane poppy channels he hated. Started a little jigging dance. She seemed happier now, so he asked again how she was? OK she responded. Then she looked at him, a long stare. Who was that woman you were with last night? she said.
He knew he would have to answer. But not now, not yet. He hadn’t decided what to do.
Cat got your tongue she said?
Now it was night, the books were making sparks. He threw her record collection onto the bonfire.
She always asked too many questions he thought as he walked back into the house.
