He had come to fix the boiler. A young spanish looking boy with warm eyes and rather large arms which tensed seductively as he lifted his tool kit up and came into the house. There were many reasons why she had become so lustful of anything with a pulse and a cock in the last few years, but they were nothing new, the story had been told a million times over before. A husband always away on business (no doubt shagging girls in all corners of the earth), a lonely empty house, no passion in their minimal time together and a want of adventure. She had spent the best part of last year reading all manner of raunchy service station novels about housewives not much different to herself going off with some adventurous young guy that walks into her life, fulfilling her lifelong dreams of snorkelling, mountain climbing and other such Hollywood encrusted dreams before they settle down on an island and live happily ever after, fucking with vigour and passion each night until they die lovingly in each others arms.    
    Once she was a realist, an art student with powerful ideas and a desire to change the world, but like her husband who was also of the same ilk, they had ended up formulating careers and moving on into suburban life, the typical nuclear family minus the child. They lived on a close, had two cars in their brick drive way, perfectly square privet hedges and ate out once a week in the same restaurant he had proposed in all those years ago.
   “Where’s the boiler love?”
   “Huh? Oh, sorry, it’s just by the bedroom, I’ll show you.”
   “Cool, any chance of a cuppa?”
   “Oh where are my manners, of course. Anything you want, just call, I’ll get it for you…anything” She repeated the word with a wink and a wry little smile, then turned on her heels as gracefully as possible and sauntered into the kitchen hoping to look care free yet seductive.
    The boiler was in the bathroom just next to their bedroom. Whilst she was waiting for the kettle to boil, she quickly un made the bed and chucked some clothes around the room, then layered some books on the bed side table in a ‘quirky’ manner, guys loved quirky girls, or so thats what one of those supermarket gossip mags had told her. Think zooey, think Juno…
    The kettle clicked. She rooted through her underwear draw and at the back, found an old pair of lace knickers that she hadn’t worn in a number of years. Swapping them and dropping the granny pants on the floor she skipped over to the mirror to admire her relfection, humming a gay little tune as she did so. Forty eight and still got it, fuck yea.
 Clicking the on switch to the DAB radio in the kitchen, the squawking of some horrible pop princess came across the waves; wincing, she turned it up. It was one of those fluffing or twerking songs, something like that anyway. She poked her head around the door to see if he was in the hall at all, no sign, must still be working. There was a grunt and a thud. Sounded like hard heavy work, the words sent shivers up her spine as she went to the fridge for the milk.
   The tea cup fell in slow motion to the floor as she tried to let out a scream, the shattered mug flying off in all directions, boiling tea poured over her bare feet. That time a sound came out.
He was lying slumped beside the toilet, his eyeballs hanging from their sockets down by his  deflated chin, a horrible smell of burning flesh floating almost visible in the warm morning air.


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