To mark Flash Fiction day, this is 'Another Evening In' reworked to 150 words:
She startled as the long-expected key grated in the lock.
“You bitch”, he spat, looming in the doorway. “I’ve heard all about you, in the pub”. Her plan, ‘Be compliant, don’t argue’, shaped in hours of dark waiting, shredded like rotting lace.
“Dirty bitch. You fucked them all”. He described each graphic detail with spite and relish. Stomach rolling, numb, she whispered “Who?” but his venom was already spent.
The vase her hands had grabbed unbidden smashed against the closing door. Suddenly enraged, she gripped the biggest shard, raced after him, aimed at his face. As his fists clenched she tenderly dabbed his rigid chin with tissues, vainly tried to stop the flow of blood.
Next morning, she had to pick at last night’s scab, asking, dry-mouthed, “Who said those things about me?” Not wanting to know.
“No-one”, he smirked, “I made it up. To see what would happen”.