750 words: hay bales, part 3

Still going, with a twist, of sorts.

—–

james staggered back from the trees, stumbling over roots. he had had no idea that kat was unhappy or dissatisfied with him in any way. why would she be looking for love elsewhere? or did she just crave the excitement of sex with someone other than her husband? that she was so desperate that she would consent to the indignity of snatched coupling in a parked car only upset him more. he was finding it hard to wrap his mind around the concepts invading it.

he tripped and fell at the edge of the trees. twisting to avoid braking his camera he landed on the side where his coat pocket held the wide angle lens. he stifled a cry as the lens rammed into his kidneys. he dragged himself back up to his knees and took the lens from his pocket. it was broken. a wedding present from kat and it was smashed. the symbolism was hilarious and, again, he had to stifle a cry, this time of rage.

at least the pain cleared his mind. he didn’t want to confront kat until he had thought about what to say. that meant he had to get home before she got there. she could not know that he had been in the field or any change in his attitude to her would set off alarm bells. he wondered that he was so concerned about missing out on the shoot, more perhaps than kat’s betrayal, or was that just shock.

he made the return journey along the jitty in half the time it took previously and was easily home before kat. probably still pulling her knickers on, he thought. what to do was his next thought. he erased the answer machine message first then went upstairs to change out of his shooting clothes. the jacket was marked with dirt where he had fallen but that was hardly noticeable among the other marks on it. the trousers were okay. but his side was developing a decent bruise where the lens had hurt him. he’d have to think of an excuse for that if kat noticed it. he made do with pulling on his home-slobbing track suit.

he was back downstairs and packing the camera equipment away when he heard kat opening the front door. he panicked. how did he normally greet her when she got home. he could not remember. he called out a hi, trying to make it sound normal and unconcerned but it came out strangulated. kat appeared in the doorway. are you okay, she asked.

i’m fine, he said, getting up from where he was kneeling beside his camera bag. he winced from the pain in his side and explained, a guy carrying some lengths of wood rammed me in the side with them today; i think it’s coming up in a bruise. he pulled up his top to show her. come into the kitchen, she said, i’ll put some witchhazel on it.

james thought he managed not to raise any suspicions in kat that night and used the excuse of his side hurting to avoid any intimacy in bed, not that kat seemed inclined to initiate any. he suppressed his thoughts about that. when she was safely asleep, james crept downstairs and sat in the study to think.

nothing came to him. he got up and poured a generous measure of scotch and sat sipping that. the problem was not that he could not think what to do, it was that he could not think what he felt about the situation. he was angry and upset but not as much as he thought he ought to be. did this mean he was not as in love with kat as he thought he had been? and did this explain her seeking solace elsewhere?

no, he would not go there. if she had had a problem with him, she should have said something and they could try to work it out. screwing another man was not a justifiable response. had she become unloving to him because of this affair and that was the reason for his, albeit unconscious, distance from her. no, again, he would not try to invent excuses for himself, either.

he was on his third scotch when he tackled kat’s choice of illicit companion, her boss. yes, that definitely hurt. the man was a creep. even kat had said so in the past. in the distant past, so she, he hoped, had not been in any liaison with him at that time. the man played at running a section of his wife’s company while spending her money on his extravagant lifestyle. and that, he thought as he drained the last of the scotch, was where he would target his revenge. on the creep’s lifestyle.

—–

Yes, ok, I skipped all the raunchy sex scenes. After all, there may be children reading.

Posted on September 3, 2011, in Fiction. Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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