Hold The Chair
The heat in the flat is stifling. All the windows and doors are flung open but still there’s no breeze.
Tempers are raised to match the heat. It’s Sunday, my day of rest, but she thinks otherwise. Nag, nag, nag. That’s all I hear.
‘You’re lazy, that’s your problem. Big ideas but nothing to back’em up with. We could’ve been outta this dump years ago if you’d been cleverer!’
Her voice drills into my head without a break. Is she never happy? Have I done nothing to please her? Ever? Sixteen years working my backside off for her and still she moans.
‘Bloody birds. They’ve shit down my windows again. More work for me. Come and hold this chair. I can’t stare at this crap. Come on, hold the bloody chair. Now.’
‘It’s too bloody hot. Take a break. Relax.’
She won’t, she’s impatient. I head for a cold beer but can see her stretching through the window already. She’s still moaning.
‘I should have listened to my sister. She told me all about you.’
Yeah, she told me about you too. Sixteen years without time off for good behaviour. Even murderers get that. I’d be free now. No more listening to that irritating voice or looking at her fat arse in those god-awful joggers.
I see her begin to wobble. My stomach lurches. I grab at her, the beer hits the floor.
She falls the six floors in slow motion. There are screams. Someone’s shouting. That’s me.
The concrete stains red. She isn’t moving. Of course she won’t. Stupid to hope.
I’m shaking, freezing cold. The flat is deathly silent. I miss her already.
I should’ve told her I loved her, should’ve held the chair. Not a lot to ask, really, was it?