Mulled Vine

She stood before him defiantly, with clenched fists, her lips quivering with emotion, the words “Or else what?” hanging like a Damoclesian sword between them.

He knew she knew he would do nothing – he was boring, dull, predictable and grey in her eyes – but enough was enough and he felt an unfamiliar sensation rise up in his usually placid spirit, a raging fire, torrid emotions that poured into his mind like a swarm of infidels. He let out a roar and rushed forward, grabbing her fiercely with both hands by the throat and lifting her off the ground. She stared back with wide-eyed astonishment, immobile at first, but then clutching frantically at this hands; but he was too strong – the unappreciated hands that had slaved away to give her all she wanted now squeezed the life out of her.

He watched coldly as her eyes began to mist over and the struggling
ceased, until finally she hung limply from his grasp. He let her fall to the ground and stared at this hands – good, reliable, faithful, servant hands – and he wondered if now at last she would stop wanting more.