Anne Soilleux

She moves her cotton pyjamas and her book out of their bedroom whilst he is at work. She is done with the suffocating heat of his body, the snoring and the pawing, his stale morning breath and the ritual scratching of his balls.

Fine, he spits. But don’t expect me to live like a monk.

The front door slams.Her book lies beside a glass of water on the nightstand. The white sheets on the spare bed are slab-smooth and cool, inviting her to lie back and contemplate the silence. Later she sleeps and dreams of wombs and welcoming cloisters.

This story won First Prize in the June 2021 Monthly Micro Fiction Competition.

About the author: Anne Soilleux lives in Berkshire where she tries to write, among other things.