Her fourth husband was late. Not in the same way as the first three, at least not as she knew. There could be no telling until he arrived.
“Milady?” A servant paused with a pitcher held above her crystal goblet. Unlike at the Masten estate, this gentleman could meet her eye without fear.
Their wine was rich, dark, and not her favorite. As her fingers brushed the stem, her son’s hand touched her forearm.
“May I have a taste?” His face was sharp and his skin, tanned, like hers. But his dark green eyes were his father’s. Her second husband loved his wine rich and never went a day without a glass. But he was as tempered with that as he was all things.
Even as sickness took him, he was patient, wise, and calm. She slid the goblet to her child, their hands touching as he reached for the bulb.
He drank all this kingdom would willingly give him. But he would have her love, his siblings, and his own life. The world would be beautiful.
In honor of marriage equality being legalized nationwide, today’s flash fiction will be from one of my homosexual characters. I promise he’s usually happier than this.
“How long has it been now,” she asked, forcing sweetness. “Three years, I think.” They stood together in the kitchen, but who knew why. The two of them were just in the way of the personal chef. “What’s kept you, dear?”
She smiled, manicured nails lacing between another in front of her silk floral blouse. Marilyn had to be in her early to mid 50s, but she’d only refined her skill of how to look whatever part she needed. Today she was Mom, a loose curl hanging out of her bun and elegant flats on her feet.
Connor swallowed anger, bile, and more of the same. People had said to him that regret was a prickling in their eyes, but with Connor it was like rats chewing through sinew & bone in his chest. “Nothing really.”
“You know my opinion on what you’ve done.” Some rock song played on the solar-powered radio, and Merisi watched through slitted eyes from her stool. The cat had never liked Bridget.
“Broke two of my best plates,” Breann agreed, smudging some pastel on the canvas with her finger. As usual, she sat on her ladder with the easel on a bookshelf. Maybe the air or the view was better, but Breann always worked up high. Never gave the reason even when Bridget asked.
“This isn’t about us,” she stressed. Combining their first talk since breaking up with this proposition… It should’ve been easier.
“What is?” Breann smiled, switching to dry brushing the canvas with a dark paint. Another test piece, just Breann at play with expensive supplies. Some of those pieces were her best.