It is amazing, her recovery time. Her hangovers are: uninterrupted sleep, a groan, a make me a bacon buttie and as I am cooking she is bounding from the bed, looking for her shoes, talking about a walk. For now though she is sleeping and I snuggle into her. Who knew age is more than a number. I don’t even drink, I fear the hangover.
‘Bacon’ she mumbles, strings of drool collect at her mouth. I kiss her and get up to go downstairs. I am in the kitchen when I hear her yell.
I switch up the gas, drop the frying pan and run to her. ‘What’s wrong?’ I pant.
She holds out her dry, admittedly matted, hair, with an elastic band, bound into the middle, choking strands.
‘Oh Rapunzel, Rapunzel’ I tut.
‘Don’t take the piss!’
I fetch the scissors. She curls onto the bed. I squeeze her in-between my thighs and fiddle with the knots, brow clenched in concentration, while she strokes my freckled skin.
‘Why don’t you come out with me?’ She asks.
‘You know why, I’m not comfortable. People stare’ I reply.
‘I want to show you off in places other than the supermarket’
‘Shouldn’t need to show off. It isn’t like a few years age difference. It’s decades, darling’
I nibble her earlobe, cutting stray strands of hair, then oh shit.
I start to smell the bacon.
I think I drop the scissors onto the bed. I whip her with my leg, as I dart, rushing to the kitchen and my heart simmers as I shake the frying pan, toasting bread under the grill.
‘Donald’ I hear her say.
She is standing at the top of the stairs. At first I think it may be a scarlet scarf, her hair covers most of her face, but then I see red drops, like grease fat.
I freeze, moving only to catch her as she faints down the stairs and I examine her.
I have sliced her neck with the scissors.