The carpet-slippered feet dangling above the stairwell said it all; he’d not really invited her round to discuss the divorce.
Stumbling through the detritus of his living-room, all empty bottles and overflowing ashtrays, she found their framed wedding photo. Even through the crazed glass, no-one could mistake her thousand-yard stare into the dazzling headlights of his need.
“I don’t think I love him,” she’d confessed to her bridesmaid.
“Too late now, hon. Deal with it later.”
“I don’t think I like you,” she said, to her reflection in the rear-view mirror as she drove away.
Maybe she’d deal with that later.
On the last leg of our cruise back to port now, and looking forward to full broadband facilities in the next week or so. Apologies if I haven’t got round to reading all submissions, or responded to all comments – sometimes waiting for a page to download is like watching paint dry. Thanks again to Rochelle, our gracious hostess at Friday Fictioneers.