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Sunday, 16 June 2024

'The Perfect Job' by Stella Turner

I was in meltdown like the snow at the side of the stream. To be fair I was always in meltdown whatever the season. If I wasn’t fretting the small stuff, the large stuff was chasing me with big cudgels in my nightmares. I was a bundle of neuroses but no one knew neither my friends nor my perfect fiancé and certainly not my boss who seemed to delight on insisting that I met the impossible deadlines. I’d smile, grit my teeth and achieve.

I dragged his body from the boot of my tiny little car. I’m still amazed I managed to squeeze his frame into it. Thank God for his scrawny, tiny statue. He looked quite peaceful for someone that had experienced major trauma; death. I smoothed his hair back into the fashionable style he liked to wear. That much I could do for him. I left him sitting on a little bench at the side of the calming water, well it helped to calm me. When I feel at the height of my anxiety I imagine myself sitting beside water listening to its rhythm as it flows towards the sea. I put the best ever suicide note in his pocket. My many talents never fail to impress me. Maybe I should think about writing a bestseller?

At the funeral, his mother noisily sobbed. It took all my control not to shush her. I held her hand tightly and sobbed myself with restrained decorum. I read the eulogy with the accomplishment of a Shakespearian actress. Maybe I should audition for The RSC?

The wake was inspirational: he held my hand promising me the earth once I’d grieved. I need to google the appropriate time I can stop the pretence and marry my perfect boss.

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