My wife and my ex-wife only met the one time to my certain knowledge.
My ex-wife became my ex-wife because of my divorce. It wasn’t our divorce: I left her.
This upset her somewhat. Me being something of a catch; the looks, the good career, the money, brilliant in the bedroom department.
My wife – the one who took over from my ex-wife – is about fifteen years younger than the ex-wife. She was everything a virile man like myself could want. She left school at sixteen to go into hairdressing and she never came out. She lives for beauty. And with my money she can do anything I like: skin, breasts, they can do wonderful things with arses these days.
I’m a Catholic but with all the other issues the Church has at the moment, no one argued that I couldn’t divorce.
The police called the other day. It was late at night and I was engaged in athletic pursuits with a girl from the office when the phone rang.
My ex-wife was dead. They weren’t quite so blunt but they didn’t exactly wrap it up. Murdered: bludgeoned with a candlestick, the body found in a miserable bed-sit.
‘Why are you telling me this?’ I couldn’t pretend that I cared.
The voice on the end of the phone said, ‘We have your wife in custody. We found her at the scene.’
I looked at the girl from the office. Great tits, beautiful arse. Not a day over nineteen.
My lucky day.
Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 