Jane Nash: Microfiction ‘She takes a sip’
Just a sip. It is enough to register in her hair if needs be but not enough to kill her. She’s practiced the smile she now uses, urging her husband to finish his Coke. Old style bottles in a crate. She has rehearsed removing the lid. She has also learned how to replace the cap quite closely, leaving no room for mistakes.
He is thirsty, She brings him another Coke, opening the bottle in front of him at the dinner table. She takes a sip before she gives him the bottle.
He feels bilious. He aches in his guts. Nausea permeates his sinuses. This subsides overnight leaving in its wake, increasing lethargy and confusion.
Each night at dinner, she opens a bottle, takes a sip and leaves the rest for him to finish.
Any ill effects she feels, she knows will pass. It is worth it. She gives up drinking Coke with him. She prefers water, she says as he glugs down the tainted soda. She comforts herself. It shouldn’t take that long. She has the patience of Job.
Arsenic, so light to ingest, too heavy to move.
Jane Nash
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