Hands Off
by Miss Verity
Brie had been
married to Harry Ham for thirty years. Her
stomach had flipped nervously when he'd asked her
out for dinner that first time.
“I'll pick you up at seven. Italian ok!”
“Perfect, see you later.”
Brie shimmied into her little black dress, and
swept her blonde curls into an updo. When the
doorbell rang she was ready. Harry's face
crinkled with delight, “You look good.”
“So do you.”
Fifteen minutes later they were seated at
Giovanni's. Brie ordered the house special and
Harry a steak with extra sides.
Brie picked up her fork when Harry swooped in.
“Mind if I have a taste?”
“I do, actually.”
“Come on. Share and share alike.”
Years of marriage hadn't changed him. She
resorted to signposting her food in the fridge.
Brie's. Hands off.
“Yours always tastes better,” he'd say.
One day Brie made her favourite sandwich. Instead
of labelling it, she put it into a tin and buried
it in the garden. She'd dig it up when Harry went
out.
Months passed by. Then Harry died unexpectedly.
Brie dug for hours before her spade struck metal,
locating the rusty tin. She prised it open,
inside was a note.
Brie's. Hands off.
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