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Gone Fishing

Tom took his fishing rods from the cupboard and propped them against the wall by the door. He stuffed the note he’d just written into his pocket.

“Missed you this afternoon,” he said to his wife, Catherine, as she walked in.

“Did a double shift,” she answered, brushing his face with her hand as she sauntered by.

“Didn’t find you at the store when I went,” he countered, taking the stairs up to their bedroom two at a time.

“Probably out the back on a break,” she mumbled, following him at a slower pace.

Tom grabbed his weekend kit from the closet. “Saw your car at Maggie’s,” he said nonchalantly.

“Dropped by on the way home,” she replied blithely.

He took a couple of shirts off the hangers, folded them, and placed them carefully in the bag. He reached for some underwear from the dresser next to the bed.

“Wasn’t Maggie you were seeing when I dropped in,” he said quietly, stuffing his underclothes on top of his shirts.

“No, Mike wanted a few things from the store. Said I’d deliver,” she responded. “Didn’t see you.”

“Got what I wanted and left,” he said. He grabbed a pair of jeans from the closet, crammed them on top of his other clothes. “Do I have a sweater in the dryer?” he asked.

“I’ll get it,” she offered, needing a moment to digest the conversation.

He followed her down the stairs, carrying his weekend kit to the front door. He took the note out of his pocket, scratched out the word “fishing,” slipped his wedding band from his finger and placed them both on the hall table. Picking up his fishing rods, Tom stepped out of the house, quietly closing the door behind him.


Flash Fiction by Raewyn Bassett

Published in Autumn 2017

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