By Marj
Nigel glared at Angela as she passed him his coffee.
In his head was a box marked ‘My House.’ The house he once owned. The house she had taken away from him.
Looking at the shocking pink walls of the lounge, he couldn’t hide his disgust. Pink.
Her living in his house irritated, no, infuriated him. He dreamed of taking it back from her or persuading her to sell it and leave: god, how it niggled him.
She smirked at him. “Great colour, isn’t it?”
He tried to keep calm, but she was too close.
His fingers squeezed her throat.
Hard.
A good example of how those morning conversations can turn into pure murder. Liked it a lot.
Thanks! You never know what will trigger such things.
Short and to the point! There’s so much emotion precicely conveyed in so few, well crafted words. I, as the reader, felt him, experienced his resentment, and shrouded rage. Well done!!!
Thanks for the feedback. “Shrouded rage” – oh that stimulates the creative mind!
Nice. Well packed