by Matthew Roy Davey
vodka
“Jesus Libby,”
shouted Max, shutting off the smoke alarm, taking the pan off the hob and
opening the back door. “What are you
playing at?”
From the living
room came a cheer from the TV echoed by a cheer from their son
Kieran.
“Christ! Now they’ve scored. Can’t you even cook fucking dinner? I’ve worked an eleven hour day.”
“Sorry.”
“Sorry? Well perhaps it would help if you’d put that
bloody wine down.”
He stopped, hand
on hips, breathing hard and staring at her.
She was sitting at the table, staring at her phone. He cocked his head.
“Are you
okay?”
She hadn’t known
about it until several days after the event.
On the Monday he didn’t show up for their meeting and then didn’t return
her calls. She wondered if she’d done
something wrong. It went on for two days
until his wife picked up, her voice hollow and flat, demanding to know who Libby
was. Eventually, Libby couldn’t stand it
any longer and drove over to the house, something he’d forbidden her to do. At first, she thought there was a party going
on, then she realised most of the guests were wearing black.
He’d been so kind,
so attentive, so loving. But now he was
gone. She didn’t even know how or
why. She couldn’t even say
goodbye.
“Libby?”
She looked up and
gave him a tired smile.
“I’m fine. Just a long day. Shall I call a takeaway?”
Kieran appeared in
the doorway.
“Half-time. What’s up with Mum? She’s been weird all day.”
Max waved his hand
in the air.
“I dunno. Women.”
About the author
Matthew
Roy Davey has won the Dark Tales and The Observer short story competitions. He has been long-listed for the Bath Flash
Fiction award, Reflex Flash Fiction competition, Retreat West Quarterly
competition and was recently nominated for the Pushcart Prize. He lives in Bristol, England and has no
hobbies.
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