The Silent Treatment

'Oh typical!'

I took my feet off the table.

'You just don't think!'

I took both glasses to the kitchen, filled them: her favourite, gin, a splash of tonic. They sat untouched.

Jill's spike heels were destroying the carpet. The white colour was impractical, when I'd bought it.

'How could you? I mean... Really!'

I stood up, pointed at the sofa, motioned towards it. She flopped down with a loud expulsion of air. Laying both hands on her left shoe, I raised my eyebrows.

'Oh... alright!'

One shoe clattered on the glass-topped table; I winced more at her look than the unfortunate landing place. Still, the foot massage did elicit a grudging groan of something, pleasure -perhaps.

It didn't last.

'And another thing...'

There was always another thing. Her face was beautiful under the frown. The other thing proved to be the glass-ceiling at her job. Maybe the shoe/table thing had reminded her. My fault, again.
I pursed my lips - blew her a kiss. She turned her head away. Lipped a cigarette, after shaking most of a packet onto the floor. I lit her cigarette.

'Watch the hair!'

Sometimes I wish I'd been born deaf, as well as dumb.