He took his coffee to the table. She was reading the post.
He took a sip.
She began to cry. A hot tear burned her cheek.
You bastard, she said.
He looked puzzled.
How could you, she said.
I thought you loved me, she added.
I do, he said. A note of protest.
You fucking liar, she screamed. Look at this bill, she shouted, chocolates, flowers, flights. You complete.... you utter bastard.
She threw paper at him. The paper she’d been reading. Letters, bills.
He blanched. He thought he’d been so careful.
She looked up, and in one glance knew she was right.
She left him there. Tears poured forth. Later, anger would turn to cold hatred.
He picked up the credit card bill from the floor.
Italy? He’d not been there with her. Not with either of them.
He read on.
He picked up the phone.
He sank. His heart broken, his marriage stolen and his card cloned.
2 comments:
I should probably clarify (after recent experience): this is a story, It is imaginary, and was prompted by friends telling me that the garage in Newbury has had several thousand cards cloned. It is a story, made-up and not real. As far as I know ...
The perfect excuse "My card was cloned, dear!". That one's never going to wash with me now but I may have to use it for elicit weekends away with a bit of hot young stuff in tatty Levi's and scuffed trainers.
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