which wicked witch...

Standing at the sink absently doing the dishes, gazing out on the garden...

She thought of him then, coming in silently, wrapping his arms around her. Sliding against her like a cat. Gently moving her hair to one side and kissing her...there! She'd melt against him and sigh, feeling her heat rise along with the passion in him.

"Mommy...can you help me mend my Barbie?"

Her thoughts crashed to the floor like broken glass.

Bitch!
Barbie!
Bloody Barbie!!
Bastard bloody barbie!!!
Bloody bastard barbed Barbie!!!!

Her blood ran hot then cold. She never usually felt like a bad person, but now she felt herself changing into a spikey spitting she-cat, all arched back, flattened ears and protruding claws.

Sweetness in her voice: "later darling, let mommy finish up in the kitchen"

Back to vicious cat mode: Why did he do it? It was going to be their special weekend. They'd had all sorts of worries lately, kids, jobs, money and the weekend was going to have been a sort of honeymoon. They were meeting up with old friends. (including her) they would be drinking, talking, relaxed, like the old days. No worries, no inhibitions...free

At the last minute she'd been ill. Couldn't go. She'd wanted him to have a good time, he certainly deserved it, so had encouraged him to go despite his objections.

Dido, on the radio: All you want, is right here in this room

Bloody Barbed Barbie had even phoned her up, acting the old friend, "Such a shame you couldn't make it. Would've been lovely to meet up again". Bitch!

...and he'd probably kissed Barbara...there!
She felt ill
...and he'd probably stroked her...there!
She wanted to scream

She tried to understand why she felt so bad about this one, it had happened such a long time ago. There'd been others, before and no doubt after. But they didn't matter. After all they, neither of them, had been angels, and she knew their relationship was special, their love was deeper and wider than all that.

But it was because it had been that weekend, the one that was supposed to have been their wonderful weekend.

Oh, it must've been special, it's just that she hadn't been the special one. Shit, it still hurt!

"Mommeeeee! please help me...!"

"In a minute darling, mommy has to do something first."

And then there'd been the photos. He'd shown her in all innocence, expecting her to coo over pictures of old friends. But hadn't there been too many of them? How come they were always in the same shot, arms around each other? She'd cried then even though she tried to hide it.

He was sorry; he knew she'd been hurt, but not understanding (caring?) how much, he had hidden the damned photos instead of destroying them. As if it didnt hurt all the more when she accidently found them at the bottom of the drawer. It was a hundred, a thousand times worse than seeing them the first time. Knowing they were so important to him that he had to have them in the home they shared together.

Still, she kept her silence

Barbie, Barbie, fucking beautiful Barbie! How she hated that name! Why did she have to come across it every day in some guise or other. She wanted to write it in blood, then tear it into pieces so fine that it would be gone forever.

She felt like the spitting cat, the wicked witch, casting spells to exorcise her sadness, her anger, her bitterness.

"MOMMY!!!!"

"OK darling, I'm coming. Oh you want me to mend her dress? OK, I'll sew it while she's wearing it to make sure it fits right. I'll take her upstairs with me and get the sewing box."

Up in her bedroom she found one of those photos. She wrote the bitch's name on the back, tore it into little pieces and burnt it. She heated the needle in the flames, dipped it in the dust and picked up her daughter's doll. Every time she stitched the dress she made sure that she stuck the needle in deep,somewhere it wouldnt show, as she...

wished which wish?

She heard his key in the door, her heart leapt.
Smiling, everything forgotten.
For now.