Breakfast in Dread
Source: Wikimedia Commons
Mr. and Mrs. Buttrick had been married for nearly twenty two perfect, blissful years when Mrs. Buttrick came down to breakfast one morning in the aubergine dress she usually considered a little too frumpy to wear for anything but Saturday gardening, wheeling behind her a large suitcase that perfectly matched her carefully manicured lilac nails - a colour she had always wanted to wear, yet been advised by friends was a little cheap.
Mr Buttrick raised one bushy, slightly graying eyebrow in greeting over his newspaper, as he always did at approximately 8:07 every morning, and almost fell into the plate with the border of elegantly swimming mallards lightly sprinkled with toast crumbs.
Mrs. Buttrick placed the suitcase just outside the kitchen door meaningfully, and spoke the words that every middle-class man with a steady income, receding hairline and occasional erectile dysfunction dreaded:
“Darling, I’m leaving you.”
Mr. Buttrick’s face collapsed like someone had quickly pulled away a scaffold just beneath the skin’s surface. It was a few minutes before he could speak.
“Is it another man?”
“No. A village”.
Mr. Buttrick stared across the intricate structure that was quickly becoming the burning edifice of their marriage.
She continued: “We passed through it on our driving holiday almost two years ago, I shan’t mention the name, but you do know it”.
“Oh God”. Mr. Buttrick rested his head on one hand.
“You may have noticed I’ve been a little…absent…of late. Well, these past few months I’ve found myself thinking about it rather a lot”.
“This can’t be happening” groaned Mr. Buttrick. “Why?”
“The rolling hillsides. The robust home-made chips. The sturdy cottages. All of those things, and more”. Mrs. Buttrick looked into the distance mistily.
Mr. Buttrick’s voice cracked “But we can have chips! We can even keep a pet goat if you like. Oh darling, do you think this will be permanent?”
Mrs. Buttrick turned away slightly. “I can’t say for sure. Maybe I’ll tire of the greenery eventually. But you have to let me go, Andrew.”
Mr Buttrick stood up suddenly, and, finding that his knees were rather weak, flopped back into his chair helplessly. He chose to merely look at her, aghast. “What will I tell the children?”
“You can tell them the truth. I’m tired of hiding who I really am.”
With that, Mrs. Buttrick stooped to pick up the suitcase and turned to face the front door.
“Darling, I’m sorry”.
No Comments
No comments yet.
Comments RSS TrackBack Identifier URI
Leave a comment
