Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Angel Baby – Chapter Four – The Roast Dinner

The silver was cool against my skin. It was small and subtle. A simple chain, linked with a circle, that contained our little secret. Nobody would know. What they saw as a simple, sweet little necklace was a promise. It was devotion. It was a reminder to him that I would always be his, and a reminder to me that he treasured my loyalty.

I was ready to leave the house. Lips glossy, hair neat and devotion dangling from my neck. I smiled into the mirror, repeating the same thought in my head. “To belong to someone is to be truly happy.”

He was waiting, outside the bathroom, an impatient look on his face that indicated I would be in trouble later, but not then. Later, when the day had been done, and he had a fair idea of just how much trouble I had coming my way.

Dazzling in my day collar, I kissed him, deeply, and then, his hand in mine, we left the apartment.

We were going for dinner. A little restaurant, on the river. As we arrived, I stared from our table at the sunset, while he got us drinks. He knew what I liked. Apple cider, just a little ice, in a glass, with a straw (always pink). He held my hand under the table, as he glanced over the menu.

A waiter approached. Under the table, his grip was tight and I gently squeezed back. He ordered for himself, before glancing back at the menu. “She’ll have the roast chicken.” His eyes met mine. “Lots of broccoli.” Some might see that as a punishment, but not me. I love broccoli.

We had a quiet dinner. He asked me about my writing deadlines, and I smiled, giving a reassuring answer that neither of us believed. He didn’t ask if I wanted dessert, but he ordered me a toffee sundae, and told me not to leave a single bite, with a smirk that indicated that it was an order, not a request.

The broccoli wasn’t a punishment, or the enforced ice cream, and perhaps, when we arrived home, there wouldn’t be one either. His mood was jovial, and his left hand, friendly under the table. Maybe, just maybe, I was in the best kind of trouble. The kind where he looks at me, and adores me, so deeply, that he cannot bear to correct my bad behaviour.

Alas, it was not to be. As we returned to the car, he opened the glove compartment, and a familiar, wooden friend smiled up at me. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. It was a loud and painful time, in a darkened car park.

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