by Sherree Cummings
He shifted, sliding the cardboard further under his buttocks, a bit of grit poking him in the backside. The ground was freezing. He blew on his fingers trying to warm them but they were stubbornly refusing to thaw out.
He had lost everything. His home, his family, even the bloody flea ridden cat with its doses of worming tablets.
If only he hadn’t taken it all for granted; been so greedy.
Now, looking back it had all been so perfect. Or was it? Had she noticed?
Playing around had seemed so much fun. ‘Variety is the spice of Life’ they say. Spending money like there was no tomorrow, flashing the cash with his mistresses, leaving the wife to pick up after him. He… had…taken…it…all – for granted.
Now, as he looked up at the sky with its crisp, clear night-he- remembering cosy evenings at home. Sitting round the fire eating crumpets with Brucie making them (all) laugh with his jutting out chin and comic retorts. He recalled her last words to him as puce with rage she spat ‘I’ve had it, I’ve had enough! I’ve told you time and again, I’d let something go once, I’d let it go twice, but NEVER for a third time.’
‘It WAS your turn…to put the bloody bins out!’ **or ‘change the bloody litter tray’
He turned on his side. A sniffing stray dog cocked its leg and sprayed as furiously as the Trevi fountain.
© Sherree Cummings