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Saturday (standard:drama, 747 words)
Author: Ian HobsonAdded: Mar 20 2005Views/Reads: 2639/0Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
As I drew back the curtains and looked across the fields I felt something was different...


©2005 Ian Hobson 

As I drew back the curtains and looked across the fields I felt
something was different.  I leaned forward and looked down to check on 
my Ferrari.  It was parked in its usual place on the drive and looked 
as beautiful as ever; not a scratch on the paintwork.  I shrugged off 
the feeling and turned back towards the unmade bed.  The digital clock 
read: 9:47.  Marie would have left for work a couple of hours before, 
but the impression of her head was still in her pillow. 

She didn't usually work on Saturday, but apparently 'the office' was
even more short-staffed than usual, so she'd agreed to go in to help 
with 'the backlog'.  She'd even gone to bed early the night before.  
I'd told her to stop acting like a doormat.  To tell the so-called 
management to get off their collective arses and hire some more bloody 

Fortunately she knows how to get up without disturbing me. 

I still had that feeling that something had changed, so I looked out of
the window again.  Then suddenly I realised what it must be.  Actually 
nothing was different - not for a Saturday - everything was normal, 
including Marie's old Fiesta, parked in its usual spot in the lane.  
But if she'd gone to work, why was her car still there?  Our cottage is 
miles from town, and anyone giving her a lift to work would have to go 
well out of their way. 

I crossed the room, walked to the top of the stairs and called out her
name as I descended.  No reply; so she'd definitely gone.  I walked 
through into the lounge, crossed to the bay window and opened the 
curtains.  From here I had a better view of my Ferrari.  I paused to 
admire its sleek lines.  It was just coming up to its first birthday; 
only two more years to go on the loan.  When I bought it, Marie had 
called me extravagant.  But women don't understand these things.  A car 
says a lot about a man.  It's who you are. 

Irritatingly, a robin alighted on the wing mirror, but then it flew down
into the front garden to peck at something between the rose bushes.  
Marie had said something about the roses needing pruning.  I'd leave 
that to her; gardening isn't my thing.  Anyway, Saturday is always 
wash-and-wax day. 

I hoped Marie wasn't expecting me to clean her car as well. 

I wondered again why her Fiesta was still parked outside. Perhaps the
bloody thing wouldn't start again - heap of junk.  I hoped she hadn't 
wasted money on a taxi; though I couldn't think how else she would get 
to work?  Then I remembered she'd said something, three of four months 
back, about a new manager.  What was his name?  Peter?  Philip?  
Something like that.  Perhaps he'd moved out this way and had offered 
her a lift.  Had she said something about him house-hunting?  I doubted 
he could afford to live where we lived; not on the sort of salaries 
they paid where Marie worked, and especially not if he was buying.  
Renting was bad enough. 

I turned away from the window and headed for the kitchen, trying to
decide what to have for breakfast.  Marie usually cooked me a full 
English on Saturdays.  I opted for coffee and toast.  I carried it back 
into the lounge and switched on the television.  There wasn't much 
worth watching.  Mostly kids' stuff; cartoons and pop videos.  So I 
finished my breakfast, went back upstairs to visit the bathroom, then 
returned to the kitchen to fill a bucket with hot water.  It took me 
ages to find the car shampoo.  I thought at first that Marie had moved 
it to the wrong bloody shelf or something.  But then I saw it.  It was 
odd that I hadn't noticed it before.  It was right there in the middle 
of the kitchen table, and under it was a folded note from Marie. 

Dear John, 

I'm sorry can't tell you face to face, but we would only have a blazing
row, and nothing would be gained by it.  I'm going on holiday with 
Paul.  Then I'm moving in with him.  We're taking a taxi to the airport 
and by the time your up we'll probably be boarding.  I'll pick up my 
car and the rest of my stuff in two weeks. 


The bitch.  How could she do that to me? 


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