Mother’s Day, it’s like a smorgasbord, a buffet for a man of my proclivities. I watch them from my car, behind tinted glass. Their families, treating them to a slap-up meal – McDonald’s or better, Husband’s choice. And while they celebrate, I choose from my menu. Tall, short, rotund or just plain skeletal. Blonde, brunette or something indistinguishable. The choices are endless and while the day is finite, the delight is endless.
My kit sits ready and waiting, eager to action. As do I. I can almost smell the food, I can almost taste the fear. I’ll be there, soon. Standing over you, watching for that moment when you realize. When you snap and beg and plead and cry. Those tears will flood my floor. Lucky I keep a mop on hand.
She’ll cry too, but it won’t be for you, it’ll be for the lost years, the lack of thought, the limited options at the restaurant table and the stretch marks she carried, not you.
She’ll call, of course, sometime later. The Police will say “It’s only been 24 hours, he’ll turn-up. Maybe he’s with friends.”, but you know he won’t and secretly you’ll be happy.