(Page 1 of 2) A Wee Dram by Michael Aaron
 (4 ratings)
|
SUMMARY: July Flash Fiction Entry. Contains brief but potent cussing.Crash.
The plate made a satisfying sound as it shattered. Jane read the characters on one of the shards - early Qing dynasty. She took another plate from its display stand, ran a finger along the blue snake-like dragon painted on the front. Late Tang dynasty, museum quality. Absolutely irreplaceable.
Crash.
The floor of the luxurious, roomy kitchen in her Mayfair house was now covered in broken pottery. For a second, Jane worried about cleaning the mess, then laughed at herself. The laughter didn't stop, grew, turned into high shrieks of desparation until she put a hand over her mouth and shut her eyes tight.
That bitch. That little whore.
Jane was surprised Harold had shown so little originality as to sleep with his secretary, when he'd made his fortune investing in the unexpected and the unproven. Some foreign temptress, perhaps. A glamourous actress. Not that ridiculous Yorkshire girl with her obvious cleavage and grating laugh. The tawdry affair made Jane feel cheap by association.
Taking the one intact crystal glass from the Louis XIVth set, she poured a triple measure from the last bottle in the cabinet. Glenlivet, 1959. Jane took a long swig, coughed, almost threw it back up.
I can't remember the last time I was drunk, she thought. Harold did not approve of anything that made one lose control.
The laptop was still on, guilty emails covering the screen. An evening here, a meal there. The weekend when he said he was in Stockholm that was actually spent with her, in a five-star health club in Kent. He who planned everything to the last detail, who controlled their personal lives as tightly as his business empire, had left all the evidence in plain view. She pushed the computer on the floor.
Crash.
There was method to her destruction. Less than an hour ago, their home had been a temple to structure and order. Now the antiques were smashed, the giant flatscreen TV hung askew, a spider's web of fractures spreading from one corner to another. Above the Italian black granite mantelpiece, the sketch by Monet sported a deep gouge from one side to the other. Everything that had been designed to make a statement on his behalf now conveyed a new message.
Fuck him. And fuck this life, thought Jane. Another swig of whisky burned her throat. The one object she had spared was his Bonsai tree, the only living thing he had allowed in the house apart from his wife. Because he could keep its growth under close supervision, it had been allowed to stay. Jane was going to take it somewhere big and green, where it could grow as it damn well pleased.
Now she could wear skirts above the knee again. And mascara. Take a holiday that wasn't on an approved list of ski or golf resorts where they met the same godawful people they saw the rest of the year. Now, she could do anything.
A third slug of whisky ran down her throat. It made the idea less scary. For twenty years he had decided the course of their lives.
Keys turned in the door. The glass slipped from her hand to the hard stone floor.
Crash.
"Just a flying visit darling, got to get back to the office.
| 
