Sort It Out


“It’s doing my head in,” Johnny spat at the television. “Bloody Scotland. We never should have let the bastards back of the net.”

Tosh was having none of it. “If you’re going to get all mardy, I’ll leave you to yourself. You don’t give a bleeding shit about football anyway.”

“I do when it’s the sodding Scots. Who the hell do they think they are?”

“Bollocks, Johnny. You’re half Scots yourself.” She regretted it as soon as the words left her mouth. Johnny was spoiling for a fight. She could see this now, the way the corners of his mouth pressed in, the whiteness of his lips.

“You’re one to lecture me, Tosh!” he said, rising from his chair to bang the television off with a balled fist. “The way you carry on against the Americans. Oh, you’re a pissy one, all right.”

“That’s different,” Tosh said, stepping into the kitchen and pretending to be interested in the contents of the fridge. The open door was a protection in case he took a swing at her. The thing to do, she told herself, was to stop arguing. To change the subject before he got really nasty. Nobody at the office would believe she walked into another  door.

But she couldn’t for the life of her think of anything to say.


Sunday Photo Fiction