by Sam Nash
A wave of sadness rippled through her thoughts in realisation that she would never again feel those lithe mocha limbs entwined in hers, that cute little mole that looked for all the world like a third nipple and those taut stomach muscles pressed against her belly. She moved closer. He was wearing those turquoise boxer shorts with the pink pigs printed all over them that she had bought for a joke. Bless him, he’d rather come down here and work than disturb me in bed. I wonder why he didn’t tell me about the insomnia.
Aristotle was making himself heard on the opposite side of the door once more. Parth tutted, then stood up and depressed the handle, allowing the cat to bound in and wrap himself around his owner’s legs. Mary watched her husband push their pet away with a flick of an ankle and return to his frantic report writing. What could be so important that it needs documenting at four O’clock in the morning? She edged forwards again, trying to catch a glimpse of the screen when Aristotle jumped up onto the desk, padding across a leather folio of papers. An angry swipe sent the cat flying, scattering the documents across the floor. That was unnecessarily harsh of you Parth. I thought you had more patience. As he crouched down and began gathering the strewn sheets together, one partially covered phrase caught her attention. An unfamiliar crest was visible on the top right hand corner and in bold letters it read - Less Lethal Weapons.
Immediate distress activated a chemical cocktail in her brain so potent, the sudden shock jolted her presence, sucking her consciousness through the door, up the stairs and into the bedroom. In a thrilling rush of urgency, her amorphous mass reintegrated with a sickening thud back into her physical body. With one giant gasp of breath, she opened her eyes. Mary lay on her side of the bed, suffused in the dawn light that streaked through the gap in the curtains, trembling. I am not dead and that was no dream.
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