Weedkiller

An original piece of flash fiction (less than 250 words).

The mellow buzz of jet turbines caused Ted to lift his eyes skyward. Low-flying contrails dissected the copper sky. The undercarriage of the steady bullet-shaped aeroplane reflected late afternoon sunshine.

“That’s odd, love…”

“You said the same thing yesterday, didn’t you?” said Pat. “Here’s your tea.” She set them on the plastic patio table, which had always wobbled. A little spilt but she did not notice.

Ted waggled the secateurs at his wife. “One sugar this time?”

“Eh?”

“One sugar. In the tea. You put salt in it yesterday.” Pat shook her head with a reluctant smile then collapsed into the discoloured wooden deckchair.

“You can talk. Look at our roses.” Browning leaves littered the beds, contaminated with pink petals. Ted frowned. He thought he had sprayed them a day or so ago. “The weed killer’s the green one, not the red one.”

Ted lay the clippers next to his mug and slumped beside Pat, in a chair of his own. Pine creaked and cotton heaved like the mainsail of a galleon beneath him.

He reached across and his dark, cracked hand felt for her knee through the mesh of her summer skirt. She sighed at some spark of nostalgia that faded as her mind’s eye strained to focus. “That’s odd, love…”

Overhead, another aircraft ejected odourless vapour and their eyes turned to the heavens.