Friday Flash Fiction. Or Is It Flash Fiction Friday?

Hanging on with one hand, he considered his alternatives. He could admit what he'd done, who he was, but he didn't have the guts to face that yet. He hated himself for not being normal.

Well, if he couldn't be normal, he could act normal. He could bury his compulsions, hide his proclivities, and fool the world. It had worked so far, if it weren't for his stupid wife asking questions and making demands on him.

He couldn't rid himself of her, though; at least, not yet. He had used her as a prop to bolster his image of normalcy. If he dumped her, or if she dumped him, people would ask questions. Questions he couldn't answer. He hated questions nearly as much as he hated himself.

So, how to handle this, he wondered. How to simultaneously shut her down, while not causing her to flee? He had to strike just the right menacing balance.

He glanced down at the loaf of bread, his one hand on its plastic sheath, the other poised to pick up the square plastic spin-clip closure for the bag. As his wife entered the kitchen, he held up the clip and sneered, "These things might save our marriage, since you don't know how to use a twist-tie." He spun the bag for emphasis and snapped the clip into place.

She looked at him like he was crazy. "You do it like a Polack, like this," he said, picking up a twist-tie to demonstrate her folding-then-twisting technique, "instead of like this," he said, spinning the two ends together. "Nice job, Poli-locks."

He appreciated the slump of her shoulders and the confused furrowing of her brows as she contemplated how she could mess up this simplest of tasks, and how it made her so difficult to live with, and how she could endeavor to change so as not to be so burdensome and irritating. She wouldn't think of questioning him now, when she couldn't even close a bag properly.

He smiled. Mission accomplished. Life lie protected for at least one more day.
Name: Übermilf
Location: Chicago Area

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