Betrayer

© Jennifer Walmsley

He smiles. Sits down. Closes the cover of Ulysses, the tome he's reading. I stand in the doorway of his lounge, my gaze flicking from paintings, pieces of furniture, silver and ask, ‘ How's the goat?'

He gets up and approaches. ‘She's dead,' he replies. ‘Old. Arthritic.' I look down at my own arthritic fingers. ‘It's your fault,' he tells me. I look up. ‘You kept on about her pain.'

‘Did the vet cost much?' I step away to create some space between us.

‘Didn't need a vet.' Once more he smiles as he answers my question.

I turn to leave aware of his gaze upon me, aware that I too must conceal my own fragility in the future.