Updated: Jul 17
Faithfully, every evening, at 5:45, Muttley leaps up into the armchair and stares out of the window, ears pricked, waiting for Peter’s car.
I sigh, and pull the dog’s soft ears, remembering the police knocking on my door; the shock and incomprehension I felt. His Porsche had been run off the road, killing him outright. The blonde with him had survived against the odds.
I let her come to the funeral. We stood in joint, separate grief. Mourners supported me; blanked her.
I ruffle the sad dog’s coat.
“He’s not coming, Muttley. Never again.” I swallow. “I made sure of that.”
FLASH FICTION 101 JUNE 2020 SHORTLISTED ENTRY
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