MicroHorror

He was roaring drunk, with a raging thirst–still unquenched. “Wench, fetch me ale!” His hands hanging at his sides, clenched–like her dimpled, shadow-dappled buttocks–and she dared to turn her back on him.

She said, in a small, tremulous voice, “You’ve had enough,” meaning she had had it, about to get it. “Just going to loo,” mumbling.

Mistake getting out of bed, while he was awake, and the light was on: though groggy-disorientated his eyes were keen; not taking them off her, going off her–seeing all her faults.

“So?” he slurred, “Why do your sad tits sag? Had a brat?”

She tried to hide them, by facing away, another unattractive side (backside) of her uncovered: more vulnerable at the (fat, wobbly) rear. What was he up to behind her back–this foul breathed–tempered–sot of an old devil? Get thee from behind me. Wished the lights were off. He told her to turn round, swigged cheap wine, gulping noisily. She kept her head down, but could feel his cold, dark eyes all over her. She had nice legs, (when seen through dark tights) he had said: now he swallowed, belched and tut tutted. Her legs, when nylon removed, looked like Stilton: white and blue veined (don’t show you are ashamed; face the camera; grin and bare it and say, “CHEESE!”).

He snapped at her, when she snapped off the light. Straight back on. “Don’t like the darkness,” he said–beady eyes scanning her head to toe. Sizing, weighing (too much) her up: was a slackened bag of barely visible–ill-defined bones–unhappy–loose; but hung up on appearance.

The legs–so it was said, the last of an aging woman’s charms to go–were her pride, still. Still looked nice, when sheathed in nylon: (manmade)–or silk for her sisters in arms. Now, bare, they did not stand up (weak as water)–to scrutiny. Apart from prominent blue veins, and stretch marks, she had (almost swooning with humiliation)–cellulite! “CELLULITE!” He sneered.

“Bring me more drink!” he snarled wine–bottle dropped, rolling across the floor. “Have to be rat-arsed to fancy you!”

Had known her when they were both young, unwise–starry-eyed: that was why his insults hurt (her and him) all the more. His fantasy, since as young lovers they split, was to caress–lick–kiss her thighs and firm, neat arse: like orange peel now.

“Bring me bloody wine!” he screamed and coughed. “And food. I hunger!” Lunged at her, and she rushed into the “kitchen” (as he fell back on the bed)–to drink herself dry; drinking sweet and sickly cooking sherry.

His cruel comments getting her down: on nerves grating–great legs once. Picked up the metal peel and cheese grater–holes in her wobbly, bubbled thighs–held against her, and scraped at them, gently at first, peeling back strips (torn off one biting deep) skin flapping–pulled off, like sunburn: out in sun too many noons; (mad old dog). Skin tingling at first, beginning to hurt, thicker strips red lined, blood starting to run down her legs (as her greatest critic had done) pouring–spattering the floor. Grater gouging deep her blood gouting.

“What’s keeping you, bitch!” he thundered, blundering in. Stopped. Dead in his tracks. Seeing her flushed and sweating and her heavy thighs bleeding–looked bloody good! His mouth so dry all the time, with booze–now drooling.

“Go back to bed,” she said–gasped (as if with ecstasy) rasped sexily, breathlessly. “I’ll make you that snack.” And taken aback, he staggered back to the damp and smelly mattress.

And Gwyneth raised her glass–toasted herself (not him) and served up welsh-rare-bit of fun, for someone old and ugly.