The Widow (Flash Friday Fiction)

Oh lord … this is going to take all night.

England is playing like France.  In other words, shite.   He’s literally off his mind at this point.  His anger is red and raw.

I’m red and raw.  With wanting him.  Wanting him to see me.  Want me.

LOOK THIS WAY FOR FUCK’S SAKE!

I hear the ref sound a whistle and leave the room.  I’m thinking a change of clothing might bring my man around to me.  Then, in a flash, I decide clothing wouldn’t, but the lack of clothing might.  So I strip and rub myself down with the cream he gave me from l’Occitane.   That fresh smell mixed with my scent that makes his knees go weak.

England misses a chance at a free kick.  He’s screaming.  I’m desperate for his attention and his anger.

He screams again when Rooney misses a chance at a goal.  I’m cold.  The windows are open.  I pull my coat over me and rest in a chair waiting.

LOOK!

He doesn’t look.  The match ends.  He’s near tears.  I’m near tears myself.  Then, finally, he looks up to see me… waiting… and the full-fevered anger meets me.

All of him.  For me.  I’ll take it all.

Fuck the England squad, and fuck me you filthy perverted man.