I confronted him with the book, of course. Or what remained of it.
“Because you’re not available to me when you’re reading…” he said.
I was incensed. So every night I woke him at 2am.
“Because you’re not available to me when you’re sleeping.”
Then different excuses.
“The cat knocked your coffee over … it fell into the fire…”
So I scorched his silk shirts… boil-washed his cashmere sweaters.
My retaliation, like his behaviour, knew no bounds.
Six months into our marriage he finally understood my passion for books.
I still left him.
Others might have killed him.
It wasn’t me.
Such a lovely photo prompt from Dale this week, thanks Dale. And thanks to Rochelle for continuing to lead the Friday Fictioneers every week. Click on the link to see how to participate.