by Jo Pockett
She sat. One of those women. “I don’t like this”. “We can’t afford that”. “Tasteless. My dessert is absolutely tasteless”. She’s the one that made him take down all the photographs. Photos of her own proudly displayed. His children were confined to the study. As he was. Until she needed something. Every sentence of hers, a snap. No room for speculation, manoeuvrability.
He sat. Battered down plump man. “Yes dear”. “I suppose you’re right, my love”. “Never mind eh?” Living with his decision. Asking us restricted questions so as not to upset her. Suppression of an inquisitive mind, released from his paper prison for the afternoon.
Floral sofa sat. Freshly fattened cushion. Air of must and damp house. Smoothed arm covers judged by silently staring china figurines. Proudly set and witness to nothing.
Jo Pockett enjoys writing plays and prose, but finds that flash fiction is the best way to get to the point about what’s really on her mind.