THAT FEELING IN THE PIT OF MY STOMACH

washing-up-field-view-2

 

“Nothing,” she says not looking at me,

“nothing’s wrong.”

I look at the egg stained saucepan

and the rest of the washing up

smelling of day-old dishwater

and she closes a cupboard door

slightly louder than necessary.

And then there is silence.

 

And I know I’m in

trouble.

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