Leaving Home

The exercise this week is to write about somebody packing a suitcase.

The Vanity Case

I’m packing your vinyl vanity case, the one you hated, the pillar box red, square, awkward to handle. Not hospital bound this time. I’m all out of charity, watching the sexagenarian antics of the pair of them. You wouldn’t even have shortlisted her for the role. Too sociable, what with the bingo, bridge, knitting circles, book clubs, and a domestic diva- her lemon meringue, the ultimate, not a soggy bottom in sight. Not much like your bread and butter pudding. And she makes her custard and mayonnaise from scratch. I don’t think a bar of soap would make her birthday present list, what with the personalised prosecco and the blissful spa day. I found a drawer full of your soaps afterwards, avocado oatmeal, aloe-aloe, bamboo charcoal, typical of you not to even open them. Too nice to use, you’d say. She’d have washed them all down the drain if I hadn’t salvaged them. I’m taking them with me, with your scarves, the ones you only wore on Sundays; she wears scarves every day, with a French twist over her Calvin Klein gold tune necklace. And I’m taking your faux pearls; he bought her the real deal. You should have set the bar higher. I cried all the way through their ceremony; not that they noticed. I suppose they did know each other for a long time, her being his work mate and all, and maybe even his bit on the side, we won’t go there, but the mourning period was short and for all her lady-like squeaky sweetness she’s a piece of work and he’s all calf eyes. It’s puke churning to watch, and you were right about this case, it doesn’t hold much.

Copyright with Cathy Leonard 2019