Not The Man I Married

Inspector O’Keefe drove out of his street and into the gridlocked traffic. He looked at his watch. 7:50 He should be at his desk by now...he would have been but for his wife.

He drummed his fingers on the wheel and though about her. Emma’s pasty face swam across his consciousness and then bobbed on a gentle swell like a great fat Flounder.
He’d grown to hate that face, to despise every wrinkle, every pore, every...
Red... amber... green ...green...GREEN!!!

A cacophony of car horns blasted her face out of the water triggering O’Keefe into action. He raised a hand in a half-hearted gesture of apology to the car behind and accelerated through the lights.
He rolled his eyes and cursed Emma. She was still causing trouble even though she was at home in the kitchen sitting on her huge fat behind.

She had a degree in sitting on her arse, a Masters in stuffing her face with crap, and a PhD in moaning.

The moaning recently consisted of her saying that he’d become a different man since he’d joined homicide, that he had no time for her, was obsessed with the job, and his favourite – had become psychologically damaged by his daily immersion in murder. Stupid melodramatic cow!

O’Keefe chuckled with cold humour and pulled into his parking space. Well at least when he got home tonight the hole in her face would be silent...but definitely larger than normal.

The twelve bore had seen to that.