Forgot to make dinner.

The tinkling of red wine being poured slowly into the glass, the background music to her loud conversation.

The order being given, she's pretending to choose carefully – pretending to have an expensive taste.

The cheesy joke, followed by a painfully fake laugh, adding in a “You are funny, Robert.”

The knowledge that what she's doing meant a new fresh pack of lies, although she was so used to this now the guilt no longer affected her.

The feeling that her intentions were stupid and juvenile. What was she trying to prove?

The horrible feeling in her gut when she realises she forgot to make dinner.

And on top of all of this, a heart that had been broken many times, the perfect source for fueling her journey to self-destruction.

**

Press the red “STOP” button. Beep. Bus stops. Steps off and walks. Left, right. Left, right. Arrives at the small, rundown building he is forced to call home. Takes out the dark green key from the back pocket of his old black trousers. Twist and push. Open. Strides in, hides tiredness, straight through to the kitchen. Nothing. Empty table. Pulls fridge open. Empty, except for a bottle of milk, some butter and raw vegetables.

“Where's my dinner?” He shouts, slowly wandering out from the kitchen and awaits an answer. “Where are you woman?” His face starts to turn slightly red, his fists balling up at his sides.

“I work all bloody day and my dinner's not on the table when I get home. Why did I marry a bloody idiot like you?” He carries on with his abuse, unaware that no one is there to receive it. He will realise soon enough when after getting no reply he clambers up the stairs, pushing open the door to her bedroom. He will see it is untouched, except for the pungent odour of her favourite perfume, the one he distinctly dislikes. Meaning she had gone out. He would be livid – maybe resorting to breaking one of the few possessions they owned. Then he'd go out to get fish and chips, falling asleep on his arrival home.

The next day he will calmly question her as to where she was last night, his brown eyes the only outlet of his anger. She will tell him, confidently because she has done it so many times, that she was with (insert name of random friend) because (insert random reason). And he will force himself to believe her, but not before he hurls insults at her, sees her cry, sees her hurt and sees her pay. Then he would go to work, sit at the desk which says “William C.” and pick up the phone. “Hi, can I interest you...” he would begin, when the other person would slam the phone down. An over-used frown would detract from his otherwise attractive features and to distract himself from his unrewarding job he would think about what he wanted for dinner – dropping his wife a quick emotionless text demanding his chosen meal. “One new text from William” would appear on her fancy mobile screen, the same fancy mobile that William had never been told how she had enough money to purchase. She would glance at it, and sigh remembering how once “one text from William” would make her heart jump. She would reply a simple “OK.” which he would receive with a sigh not unlike hers. Unsure of whether he would get his chosen meal tonight, he brings the phone to his ear once more, and the vicious cycle continues.

**

So I completely changed where I was going with this, halfway through writing it, so sorry if it's not very good