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| Bronze Goddess | |
| By Snodlander | ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| 25 March 2007 | ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
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Geoff dropped his jacket over the back of the chair and collapsed into the cushions with a large sigh. Bobbi came in from the kitchen. “Hello, Geoff. How was your day?” Her cheerful voice was without warmth, like winter sunshine. It was what she always asked, and she didn’t really mean it. “Tiring, but I don’t want to talk about it.” He waved at the TV, but it remained silent. He waved again. He waved both arms frantically in front of the sensor, but still it stubbornly refused to acknowledge him. Bobbi walked over to it and switched it on manually. “The remote is faulty. Shall I call out a tech?” she asked. “No, don’t bother.” It was two weeks to payday, and already most of it was spoken for. “What’s for dinner?” “Shepherd’s pie, with runner beans and sugar-snap peas. It will be ready in 18 minutes.” And it would too. If she said 18 minutes, then it wouldn’t be 17 nor 19. And the shepherd’s pie would be made exactly how the recipe said it should, each ingredient carefully measured out. Bobbi was a perfect cook. He had never eaten anything that was in the least unpalatable, once she had known about his aversion to swede and beetroot. But she was unimaginative. She would never throw sweetcorn into the shepherd’s pie, just to see if it worked. Still, it was such a tiny niggle, compared to the prospect of a perfect meal ready for him each evening. Bobbi picked up the jacket and expertly smoothed and folded it. “Do you want a beer?” “Oh God, yes.” She left the room, and he heard her walking up the stairs to hang his jacket in the wardrobe. Everything neat. Everything proper. No mess, no waste. Geoff once again considered going crazy, trashing the room in a fit of rock-and-roll exuberance, just to shake her out of her neatness fixation. But all she would do would be to clear up afterwards, and he didn’t have the money to replace smashed TVs. She came back down, and from the kitchen she called out, “Which beer would you like? You have Thorndike’s Original or Wilson’s Strong Bitter.” His one luxury. Specialist beer. “Surprise me!” There was a pause. Then, “Which beer should I surprise you with?” Geoff grinned. She had no sense of humour, so when she inadvertently said something comic, it was all the funnier. “Original,” he called back. A moment later she appeared with bottle, glass and coaster. As she poured the beer he watched her. Comparatively old as she was, he never tired of looking at her. Her smooth lines, her graceful movements, her bronze skin. She placed the glass on the coaster and turned. “Yes?” “Oh, nothing. I was just looking at you.” “Why?” Geoff shrugged. “Because you’re beautiful.” “Do you want anything else?” That was so typical of her. No compliment back. No thanks. Just acceptance of the fact. He had told her she was beautiful countless times before, and she just filed it away in her head along with the vegetables he didn’t like and the beer he did and his shoe size. Fact: Geoff comes home between 18:34 and 18:52. Fact: I’m beautiful. Fact: Sugar-snap peas need to be steamed for 6 minutes. Geoff shook his head. As she turned, the neck of the bottle shattered in her hand. “Sit still,” she ordered, and picked up a few slivers of glass from his chair with delicate fingers. Graceful and efficient in everything. Then she knelt, picking up the slivers from around his feet with one hand, dropping them into the palm of her other. Finally, after checking the area again, she took the broken bottle and shards out into the kitchen. Then she was back with the dustpan and brush, cleaning up those pieces too small even for her to see. “I’m sorry,” he said, stroking her firm shoulder as she knelt before him, feeling the coolness against his fingers. She looked up at him. “Why?” “I’ve been neglecting you lately. You told me about your hand weeks ago. I should have done something about it then. Is it serious?” “No, it just needs a service.” She straightened up. Geoff couldn’t help but notice the scratch across her torso, the delicate filigree of corrosion around some of the screw-heads. The shop kept trying to get him to upgrade, but he liked her. Besides, he didn’t want to break another one in. “OK, book yourself in.” Bobbi paused for a moment. “Service confirmed for tomorrow, 10:45. Cost will be £430 plus parts.” Geoff grinned ruefully to himself. Why did he always choose the high maintenance ones?
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