Despotism: The power spirit or principles of a despot absolute control over others tyrannical sway tyranny
Flatulently: In a flatulent manner with flatulence
Movie: A motion picture
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The cold light of early morning scatters through the blinds, zebra stripes that cast strange, abrupt shadows. Light and dark. The room is small, claustrophobic, and devoid of anything bar a table, a few seats and a tape recorder, which sits in the centre of the table ‘in case of disputes’ – well, that’s according to her lawyer at least.
She’s late – as usual. A typically arrogant move that means you’ll have to sit and enjoy the silent ménage a trois between yourself, your lawyer and her lawyer for a little bit longer yet. You wonder if whistling might lighten the mood, or humming. Instead you start preparing a long-winded and gregarious opening gambit, one that you’ll deliver so flatulently, that the vein in her neck will begin to pulse. You smile at the thought of it burrowing and bursting forth like a movie monster trying to escape. It would certainly solve a few problems.
She’s locked you up tightly in here, the stripes of light like prison cell bars, and you just sit silently obedient, showcasing the manners of an expensively trained dog. She always wanted a dog, but you said no. You argued the toss – who’d clean up the mess? Who’d stay at home to keep it company? This isn’t a fucking Scooby Doo movie, you shouted, it’s our fucking lives. No, you didn’t fancy a dog.
You look at your watch, time moving so slowly that even the imperceptible movement of the second hand feels like the aftershock of some seismic event. Tick, tick, tack… wait, did it just move backwards? You can’t be sure. It’s too early in the morning for this. You stifle a yawn. Her lawyer suddenly perks up, scrutinising this apparent sign of weakness. He looks as if he’s about to say something, a rebuttal on the tip of his tongue, but decides better of it and instead hurriedly scribbles something down.
The lawyer sitting next to you, a thin, balding man with an eagle’s beak of a nose, is engrossed in the documents before him. Sucking up all your dirty little secrets like a sponge. Sure, he’s defending you, looking out for your interests, but what’s stopping him from holding things over your head if it all goes tits up? She always did, why should he be any different? Maybe it was the weight of those expectations that eroded your self will, made you get drunk and want to explore new and exotic avenues. Yeah, you could blame her, you suppose, but you know that her lawyer has exactly the same notes and will shut down that play instantly.
She’s still not here – a classic case of female despotism syndrome. Always has to be centre of attention. Always has to be fashionably late. Always has to spend your money on whatever Vogue suggests. One pair of shoes the same as a deposit on a house. You hope the heels gave her blisters.
You check your watch again, a Pavlovian response to your own nerves, and notice how the black inlaid roman numerals look like the bars of a prison cell.
Stories On The Sofa 