I ask him to do one simple thing and he makes a mess of it.
What makes it worse is it’s his fault I’m here. I’ve lost count of the times I’ve asked him to not leave bits of his motorbike lying around on the kitchen floor. He tells me it was a front brake master cylinder I tripped over. I won’t tell you what I said.
The result – torn knee ligaments.
So I ask him to do my nails. Aquamarine I said. What does he do? Bright bloody red!
When I reach those crutches I’m going to kill him.
A 100-word story for this week’s prompt at Friday Fictioneers.
PHOTO PROMPT © Susan Eames