This was not the most salubrious establishment in town. The note on the window told you it’s owners were shadowy characters, not open to complaints. The two ceramic butterflies on the wall outside must have been someone’s futile attempt to make the place seem more homely. It hadn’t worked. Every morning I ate the burnt breakfast, drank the foul coffee and spoke to nobody. Me and this place were made for each other. I would watch the house across the street. Watch the bastard who’d married my wife and was playing ‘daddy’ to my son. And every day I cried.
A 100 Word Story for Friday Fictioneers