This story was first featured on the website of Flash Fiction World Contest in 2013. Unfortunately, I didn’t record the website URL and can’t now find it, which means the site probably no longer exists!

Too Much Trouble

‘You’ve let yourself go.’

He looked down his length and saw the protruding belly hiding his feet and knew she was right. The point was, did he care? Care enough to do something about it?

‘You know, you’re right. I have.’

He looked at her. She was right to be proud of what she was. She was no beauty. But she’d maintained a figure that was the envy of women half her age and her hair was glossy, styled and controlled. The crow’s feet round her eyes she labelled laughter lines, and that was fair enough; she laughed a lot. Mostly at him.

There were signs of droop about her lips but that was his fault also; if she hadn’t had to frown and turn her mouth down at his hopelessness so often, her mouth might’ve continued in the sunny smile she’d brought him when they’d met. And the colour of her eyes was brightened by the gleam of something he’d never quite achieved: the confidence that all was well within, no matter what went on outside the skull. No beauty, but still a woman most men would be happy to have by their side, at their kitchen sink, in their bed and mother to their children. Not that they had any. She had that indefinable quality that made men look twice and then again. He’d looked and lusted all he could. Still did.

‘So? Are you going to do something about it?’

Now there was a question. Do something? What, exactly? He could cut down on food; except he was greedy for her cooking and enjoyed the pint or two he had with the lads down at the Crown. He could walk to work instead of driving, but if it rained he’d risk a soaking and if the wind blew he’d get cold and if the sun shone he’d be mafted. He could maybe do some exercise. Trouble was, there was no room; not really. Not like the space she’d always coveted next door. No; their own front room was full of unfinished flat-pack furniture. Been there years, some of it. He ought to sort it out. And the bedroom had too little space around the bed, what with his magazines stacked in there. He could do it in the dining room, if he moved the table to the wall, stacked the dining chairs and shifted his old motorbike. Yes, that should do it. He’d start tomorrow. Maybe.

‘You’ll be late for work.’

He checked the clock and saw she was right. Always was. Proud of her good sense, her timing, her abilities, her way of getting things done. Sometimes it wore him out just watching her.

Late for work. Perhaps he’d better throw a sickie. Wouldn’t do to turn up late again. The boss was angry with him for some reason; threatened him with the push if he came in late again. He’d phone in sick. Later.

‘You’ll get the sack if you’re late again.’

Right, again. He told her he felt poorly. Would she phone his boss when she got into work? It would sound better from her. She spoke better than him; proud of her way with words, she was. And rightly so. Why shouldn’t she be? She was better at the wordy stuff than him. Clever, really. Yes. He’d done alright when he’d married her. Done well for himself.

‘If you’re really feeling poorly, you’d better stay in bed. I’ll leave a sandwich in the fridge for your lunch and bring something in for tea. Tell your work it’s your usual? Back playing up again?’

It wasn’t. But it was a good excuse. He nodded and brought out the signs of pain for her to see. She’d always been a pushover for sympathy. Bless her heart; perhaps she should’ve been a nurse. She was bright and caring enough to do a job like that as well as she’d need to be content. Always had to do things properly. No half measures. Do it well or not at all. Been her way all their married life.

‘I’ll be off then. Make sure you don’t overdo it whilst I’m out, won’t you?’

Was there a hint of sarcasm in her tone? No. Not likely. She’d always defended him to his friends and any others who’d called him lazy, fat and useless. No. He was just hearing what others always said she ought to feel about him.

The door closed quietly and he gave her five minutes before he left the bed he’d returned to at her suggestion. There’d be warm tea still in the pot and he’d have that sandwich for breakfast. Telly on all morning and no need to dress until he went out. The pub at lunch for a pie and pint.

Heaven.

In the Crown, his second pint was pulled before he even reached the counter.

‘Didn’t I see just your missus? Poked her head round the door.’

She was at work. She’d never come in the Crown. Not her sort of place at all. The barman was mistaken; must’ve seen some other looker.

He left the pub in time to be home when she arrived. He’d get his clothes off, slip back into bed and pretend he’d been asleep.

The house looked different somehow. In the bedroom, one door of her wardrobe was ajar. Most unlike her to leave it like that. Proud of her belongings; kept them neat and tidy. He shrugged, tossed his clothes to the floor and slipped into bed. A piece of paper rustled on the sheet beneath him. He pulled it out. It was a note.

‘I’ve left you. You’re a slothful sod and I’m no longer willing to put up with you.’

Slothful? What did that mean? He’d look it up some time. Maybe. Left him? But why?

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