FOUL SHOTS

FOUL SHOTS

“They switch wings you know,” Derek educated the nurse.

“The cross carpeting bastards. You’d have thought someone would have mentioned it at some point in time, but nobody ever says anything about them switching wings,” he further lamented.  

Certain things

Certain things

Ozinwa lived in the most impoverished of refugee camps bordering two warring countries, where all the men had absconded to celebrate their differences in a conflict of forgotten origins. It was a conflict seasoned with a particularly generous pinch of atrocity, resultantly, the women and children painfully endured slow deaths by disease and starvation... amongst many other ills. 

A verdict, he sought.

They sat in silence on the drive back to her flat. He drove slowly to lengthen the journey. He wasn't in a hurry. He felt she needed a bit more time to properly structure her apology after screaming at him in front of the waitress.

Earlier on, she'd been dillydallying:"...boiled or fried, boiled or fried..." she had repeated to herself for what to him seemed like a thousand times. Impatiently, he'd turned to the waitress and suggested "grilled" on her behalf. He knew she would hate that, but he hadn’t expected the tongue-lashing… especially not in front of the waitress.

“It’s not you, it’s me...” she started.