His Wandering Days Are Over

Flash Fiction By Jim Harrington

Charlie sat in his favorite chair, hands on his knees, head tilted to one side. A steak knife protruded from his neck.

Ellen, naked, used a cloth napkin to remove Bolognese sauce from her petite breast.

“You aren’t hungry? That’s not like you. Spaghetti is your favorite.” She leaned forward, twirled a helping of angel hair pasta on his fork, and lifted it to Charlie’s mouth. “You haven’t eaten for two days.” She shook his shoulder as if to awaken him. “You need to eat.” When Charlie didn’t open his mouth, Ellen ate his helping. “Maybe you’ll feel like eating tomorrow,” she said, slowly sucking a stray noodle between thin lips, while gazing at Charlie through half-closed eyes.

She finished her dinner without bothering Charlie. She could tell he wasn’t interested in talking. He’d always been the quiet type. Said it was because she never shut up, but Ellen knew the truth. He was shy.

Ellen hummed along with the cassette tape as Tom Jones sang “What’s New Pussycat,” while she washed the dishes, the dishcloth circling to the beat of the music, her small hips swaying. “Remember when we went to his concert? I removed my panties in the ladies’ room and threw them on the stage.” She turned and smiled. “You gave me that surprised look, wondering how I could do such a thing. Even after we got home you were bothered so much that you weren’t interested in having sex. I had to take care of myself, while you sat on the back porch drinking beer.”

Ellen ran a hand over her breasts and between her legs. “Just thinking about him makes me horny.” She squeezed her legs together. “How about you, Charlie?” He remained silent. She pulled another plate from the water. “No? Again? Jesus, Charlie. Do I have to go find someone else to satisfy me?” Her face hardened. “Like you did with that whore waitress Sheila what’s-her-name? You couldn’t do any better than that? I bet there were others, too. Am I right, Charlie?” She thrust a plate into the drying rack chipping the edge and frowned at Charlie. “My Uncle Fred was right. I married a loser.”

Ellen continued washing the dishes, letting Tom Jones brighten her mood, until the last pot was clean. “I’m going to dry them later.” She walked to Charlie, smiled, cupped her breasts, ran a finger over each hard nipple. “Sure you don’t want to join me upstairs?” Charlie stared straight ahead. “Or do you want to do it here, bend me over the table?” She waited for Charlie to stir. When he didn’t, she walked to the stairs and stepped past the suitcase resting on the bottom step. Her leg brushed against the ticket to Cabo knocking it on the floor. She looked down and smiled.

“You know, Charlie. If you continue to smell like you do, you may have to go to the doctor.” She wagged a finger. “And you know how you hate doctors.”

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Bio: Jim Harrington lives in Huntersville, NC, with his wife and two dogs. His stories have appeared in Short-Story.Me, Ariel Chart, Yellow Mama, The Blotter, and others. More of his works can be found at his blog HERE.

Read more Flash Fiction on The Yard: Crime Blog

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