Cash-Purchase

By Luke Carter

Feeling criminal—all-black civvies, mask on, cash withdrawn—I head to the ironmongers.

I practiced nonchalance in the mirror; my sketchy intentions are nonetheless obvious to everyone there.

“Sledgehammers?” I ask.

The shopkeeper almost imperceptibly raises an eyebrow, a hint of a smile pulling at his mouth. He returns momentarily with two sizes—I pick the larger, proffer cash; his bemusedly skeptical expression morphs into knowing connivance.

“Someone piss you off, aye?” he chuckles amicably.

“I’m an erection specialist,” I reply, facial muscles twitching from the effort of holding back a scripted wink. “Marquees, gazebos.”

My cheating husband’s Bentley was lacking character.