2011 short story competition - Hindsight by Dr Ceri Goodwin

STEVE sits on the verge of the big four-poster picking his toenails. He has Deb’s place to himself this morning; she’s taking her two disgusting kids to Saints preschool – they’re chubby and butt-faced like their dead father, probably be diabetic in their forties, too – then she’s off to tennis with some other GP tarts.

Deb comes in last night starkers, smooth as silk for late thirties and all over him like prickly heat, domineering really. Steve is supine, studying the huntsman on the panelled ceiling, inching its way in aliquots to the corner by the French doors that look down onto the now dark pool and lawn court. He’s a bit boozed up and really relaxed, Deb on top, pounding away in some other world, staring vacantly at the thick sinews of his neck.

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