The Despicable Pickle

Of course, he could have made his own sandwiches for lunch, but he was a traditionalist. It was woman’s work. He bit into the sandwich from his lunchbox and visibly recoiled. She’d put pickles in again, which he detested. He thought after their last ‘conversation’ she would stop doing this, but she’d started it again. It was simply to annoy him, petty and vindictive. He thought he’d made himself clear the last time. He threw the sandwich in the garbage, deciding she needed another lesson when he got home. She’d learn not to annoy him. She’d learn, not for the first time, he didn’t like wasting food and, more importantly, wasting money.

He entered the house after his shift, still in a foul mood. She stood in the kitchen, her back to him. He remained silent and walked up behind her. He wanted her to know he was angry, but it was a cold wrath. No need for raised voices, his retribution would come another way. She turned, and before he could react, the knife slid into his chest. She was silent too, she’d decided her revenge was going to be cold. He fell onto the kitchen floor. There was very little blood, but the damage had been done. She reached back toward the counter, picked something up and shoved it into his mouth.

The last thing he tasted was the sour, unpleasant taste of his least favourite vegetable.

∼ RJ Meldrum