Read by Graeme Dunlop
John walked into the small kitchen. About to pitch the hot tea across the room, he took a slow breath, tipped the drink down the sink and delicately placed the mug at the side. Hands covering his eyes, he leaned back against the table.
“Why?” he asked. “Why us? What did we do?”
Fists squeezed, he rubbed his eyelids, cursing God, cursing the events looped on the news, cursing Emma for burying her head in the sand and pretending everything was fine. Nothing was fine. Not a fucking thing.
He stank. He ignored it.
It had all begun three days ago. Dressing, washing, eating. None of it seemed important anymore. The first thing he’d prepared in that time was the mug of tea, and that was a peace offering.
“Get off the damn balcony!” he screamed and pounded his fists on the table top. The wine glasses at the centre jumped and clinked. A decision was needed. If Emma took the easy way out…
He’d be the one left to make it.