People were surprised widowhood suited Gloria so well. They’d supposed she was one of those unassuming, dependent little women who would be lost without a man to lean on.
She had been with Albert for nearly sixty years, but now he was in his grave she wasn’t lost at all.
Yes, she had cried at the funeral but what wife wouldn’t. Then, she just got on with life.
Now, as she sat in the garden she nurtured, enjoying the first real sun of the summer, she recollected the irritating things she didn’t miss: like having him under her feet all the time, being forced to make him a sit-down meal at lunchtime, with a pudding, when she’d rather have yoghurt and a piece of cheese, his shoes soiling her just-cleaned kitchen floor.
She enjoyed little treats now Albert was gone: reading in bed, having the radio on while she dressed, leaving the crockery in the draining-board to dry itself.
She turned her face to the sun and flicked another page on her detective novel. She was an avid Agatha Christie fan and had read them all. She considered herself Miss Marple’s greatest fan. Gloria could imagine the old dear solving crimes in her own village.
Gloria lay down her book and reached for her second gin and tonic. She smiled broadly; the alcohol was going to her head. It was as well Miss Marple wasn’t real, she thought, she’d work out that Albert didn’t slip and fall over that cliff.
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Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 