Sunday, 1 April 2012
A is for Adultery
The setting sun is bright behind the half lowered blind and the shadow of the washing line bisects the table between them. After the 'How was your day?' formalities there is little left to say; what little there is is left unsaid. The food is shuffled around plates listlessly, she eats her potato tiny piece by tiny piece. At each sip the wine turns sour in his mouth, but fingers rest on the stem for want of anything better to do. She pushes her plate away and sighs. A phone beeps abruptly in the silence and, then, their eyes meet.