He always got heartburn when he ate biscuits late at night. She said it was his own fault, that he should have shown some self-restraint. But tonight, he ate them anyway. In fact, he gobbled them up as he sat on his own in their small little kitchen. The dishes and bowls from earlier were still dotted around the living room, and he hadn’t bothered to clean up that coffee spillage which his brother-in-law had been mortified about. Because she was dead, put to rest earlier today. And he wanted to eat his biscuits, just so he could hear her voice.
By Stephen Murtough