It doesn’t look like her.

Well, it’s obviously her, I’m not visually challenged, but she doesn’t look like her. She never used to laugh so much. She flicks her hair back giggling like a common harlot. That beautiful silky blond hair that I could still feel on my pillow. An egg blended with olive oil was how she nourished it. Disgusting weekly ritual that she would never stray from. Made the bathroom stink. No man wants to get back after a hard day’s work to that foul smell. Told her as much. She swore that she’d stopped, but I could always smell the rot.

A car whizzes by, and its light reflects off of her hair like a swath of fire. I quickly turn away, pulling my hat lower as I pretend to inspect the local merchandise. But I can’t look away for too long. My head starts buzzing and the speculation starts.  

What does she see in him with his nifty clothes and fancy mop of hair? He sure doesn’t dress like an honest working man. One of those white-collar types, I suppose. Did she fuck him already? That’s all that he wants. That’s all they all want. Doesn’t she see it? How can she be so dumb! And the bitch takes out a restraining order on me. A man does not stalk his wife, he looks out for her. No damn piece of paper changes the fact that she’s my wife. Always was, always will be.

I note down his car number.

image from Renate Vanaga at Unsplash

Written in response to Fandango’s Flash Fiction Challenge 89, using words from the prompts Word of the Day (stalk, order), Fandango’s One Word Challenge (merchandise), Your Daily Word Prompt (speculation), The Daily Spur (fire) and RagTag Daily Prompt (swath).

4 thoughts on “Rightfully

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