The Woman in Crisis

Terry and John had been lovers for several years. The relationship was stormy at times, on the occasions when John preferred to stay out with his pals, rather than meet Terry on their pre-arranged date. John was always full of remorse after the deed, and he would be the perfect partner; until the next time.

They got married and honeymooned in Paris; the cracks showed after a day or two. John was very moody, taking umbrage at the least wee thing. Everything would be fine, and next thing, John would stomp off in a mood. Terry couldn’t understand why he was like this, and she tried everything to avoid any disagreements, feeling as though she was constantly walking on eggshells. It was always short-lived, and they enjoyed dinner in the local restaurants, before visiting the bar around the corner from their hotel.

On the last night of the holiday, John had a bit too much to drink, and he very quickly fell asleep. Terry was wakened by John shaking her and telling her that she had wet the bed. Terry was sure that she hadn’t, since her night clothes were dry. One word led to another, with Terry screaming at the top of her voice, while John spoke quietly, insisting that it wasn’t him.

The embarrassment of handing the wet sheets to the hotel maid was the last straw for Terry, and she wondered why she bothered to get married. This wasn’t how she imagined visiting Paris would be. She tried to be positive, telling herself that everything would be fine once they were home.

Four years and two children later, John’s drinking had escalated to such an extent that he often didn’t even bother to come home. One year later, John moved out. Terry’s crisis was over, well this particular crisis.

12 views1 comment

Recent Posts

See All

The demise of spaffer is a long haul; he doesn’t want to go at all. No longer in number ten, he can’t accept he’s a has been. Squatting at Chequers with all his pals, arranging titles to give them all

They’ll be here today, better get to work. Floors cleaned, beds made up; I can’t remember when I last worked so hard, for free-really, it not like me. Time to stop, have a cuppa, have a pee. The music

Hot June, hip Paris, hurrying and harassed, as we run to board the cramped and crushing metro carriage. And then, a voice from behind-‘Excuse me sir, but would you like to sit here? You look tired, an