"Honey, you're late."
"Mix-up at the massage parlour."
Meeting the in-laws. Kill me. I stumbled home in a daze through Little Russia, and only remembered my promise to buy wine at the last minute: a bottle from Georgia with STALIN on the label.
I am dizzy as I shake hands and make inane, awkward, small-talk. My back is still killing me. I drink most of the Stalin and act charming.
The dinner sits weirdly in my stomach.
Later, a quiet moment. Her parents are snooping about.
"Honey, that massage place?"
"Yeah? How was it?"
"It's...not a massage place."
More wine.
About the Creator
Conor Darrall
Short stories, poetry and some burble . Irish traditional musician, medieval swords guy, draoi and strange egg. Bipolar/ADD/CPTSD/Brain Damage. Currently querying my novel 'The Forgotten 47' - @conordarrall / www.conordarrall.com
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