“Come on, Marie.” I dragged her from the chair.
Twelve stone, my arse. Always dieting, she was; always complaining and drinking her gin, now slumped in the garden with a wet mouth and puffy eyes.
I resumed my grip beneath her arms, supporting her weight. “That’s marriage,” I supposed.
Later, I breathed in the silence.
The seat was hard without any padding. I had to laugh, that sounded a lot like divorce. I didn’t really mind.
“To you, Marie,” I toasted the night air.
I’d had to bury the cushion when I’d buried her. I’d used it to suffocate Marie.
Runcibility 