The air crackled with the static of her quiet fury. Their relationship – once a primrose path through paradise – was now a briny, broiling ocean between their respective islands, through which the fighting fish of their mutual antipathy swam. This time he had gone too far. Utterly unforgivable.
“You fucking cancerous ARSEPIECE” she spat. He simpered. Sadly his expression, which he’d intended as a mollifying ‘I-know-I’m-a-shit” face, failed to land well. It looked smug. Infinitely smug. More than that, derisory. It lit the blue touch paper.
“You’re a flouncing fucking nothing, a pathetic tosspot peacock, a shitty little gilded git with the charisma of an Oncologist giving the bad news and the emotional intelligence of cum-crusted teenage boy who puts MICE in the microwave”.
“I’m sorry”. Trouble was, he wasn’t. Bigger trouble was, he wasn’t very good at feigning it.
“You’re just the…the worst. Half a fart, fifty forced farts in the mouth. You’re a wasabi-smeared tampon, Ian Brady shitting under the Christmas tree. Jesus Christ, your dad had some spastic spunk in his addled bollocks to make you!”.
She didn’t realise it, but she was advancing towards him now, clutching a novelty outsized pencil he’d bought her from the Keswick Pencil Museum. They had visited during a tour of the Lakes, to mark their two year anniversary. He found this briefly amusing, although his face really should have done more to dissemble. Considering the circumstances.
“You’re two Hitlers. GOD it makes me sick to think that I’ve spent seven years shackled to you. You’re a child’s shoe in a warzone. Sad, confusing and FUCKING USELESS!”
* * * *
“Have you heard?”
“There’s been another one”.
“Another one? No! Shut up! With a fourteen incher?”
“Yep. Same M.O. and all. Through the neck. Bled out”.
“Fuck. But that’s seven people killed with a massive pencil in nine months“.
“Gary’s pulling them from the shop. Did you know the Museum’s on one of them tourist murder tours?”.
“Bonkers man, it’s just nuts”.