Every Thursday

There was something dark and cruel and cold and wholly terrifying about the way Peter loved Andrew. When they had coffee together, in a small, clinical chain cafe, he could feel the twisted emotion rise above the cracked porcelain and place itself, slowly at first, but with increasing strength and dexterity, around his neck. The threat of asphyxiation hung thickly over the ground black beans. Andrew felt dead already, and it was only just past midday.

Terminations

At the beginning of Autumn
Timothy Proctor hated everything about his wife. From the offensive upper curvilinear of her tired mint spectacles, to the fact that slowly and surely, the cancer was spreading, like a voracious beast, through her brittle bones.

At Autumn's close
He wept bitterly when she died amongst the stiff grey sheets of a public hospital bed.

On the same afternoon, his blurry eyes watched re-runs of Burgo's Catchphrase on a sleepy small screen television, whilst he tried to recall the acrimonious leer in the dead woman's voice every time she guessed a phrase before the shiny-faced contestant.