It was remarkable, Dorothy thought as she walked ponderously to her sister’s house, that after twenty three years of marriage, he could still provoke her into this depressed dull rage that sat on her shoulders like a dead weight.
Moodily, she kicked a can lying on the pavement, sending it spinning off a wall and into the gutter. Startled, a small tabby cat fled through a garden gate a few doors down. Dorothy eyed it balefully as it reappeared and approached her expectantly. She stopped as it leapt up onto the wall and gave a plaintive mew. Tentatively she put out her hand, which the cat sniffed then rubbed its face against, beginning to purr contentedly.
Watching the cat as it writhed around her fingers, Dorothy was struck by a curious resemblance to her husband. That selfish, self satisfied smirk she knew so well was somehow replicated on the face of this cat.
Dorothy glanced at the green wheelie bin standing just inside the gate, then looked quickly up and down the empty street. Resting one hand gently on the cat’s head, she slowly lifted the lid of the wheelie bin. In one easy movement she grabbed the cat by the scruff and dropped it into the open bin, letting the lid fall with a thump. Without pausing she turned and marched off down the street, a smile spreading across her face.