“Like always, she’ll wake up at 7:15 when He leaves for work, open her eyes at the sound of the door, shut them again, sleep some more until sleep becomes uncomfortable. Around then she’ll get up. Piss, wash, dress. Shumble downstairs and turn up the heating and get herself some breakfast. They’re almost out; just broken flakes and dust in the bottom of the box.”
A short story told in future tense. Published in Aesthetica. No longer available in any format. Contact me if you’d like to read a copy.