Sunday Roast.

She stuck her ahead above two full plates of chicken roast through the cubby hole in the plaster wall connecting the kitchen and a shabby dining room.
“Well go on then, take them”, she huffed. He replied with a noise of exhaling before taking the plates, grudgingly setting them onto the square wooden table.

As she entered the room and sat down opposite to him, she noticed the typical, yet ever unfamiliar smudge of red lipstick on the left side of his collar. It was as obvious as a crimson sun in a pure white sky or a single slice of red beetroot centered on a clean white tablecloth.

Looking back down at her meal she began to eat through steady, heavy breaths.

He noticed the silence which the teatime ritual had granted. Not uncommon, yet unwelcome. Staring at his plate he was suddenly reminded by the orangey-red stringy carrots of nail markings he had noticed on her back yesterday. They were so fresh that the skin around them seemed to still be splitting away as she left the bathroom that evening.

He sighed. “Good chops today, love.”

Sunday Roast.

MRADAMS

Joined November 2007

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Artist's Description

A short story i thought of late at night at night. It’s my first on here so please comment! Thanks.

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  • angelfyre
desktop tablet-landscape content-width tablet-portrait workstream-4-across phone-landscape phone-portrait
desktop tablet-landscape content-width tablet-portrait workstream-4-across phone-landscape phone-portrait

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