The call came just after eleven pm. She let it go to voicemail.
‘… I wasn’t able to get to a phone before now. You know how it is…’
The table was still set for two, the candles burned to black grease. At least the wine hadn’t gone to waste. She teetered out onto the veranda, glass in one hand, cigarette smouldering in the other.
She’d never liked sharing, not since she was a little girl. Back then it had been dolls and slices of black cake she’d kept to herself. Perhaps this was payback for her childish greed, a cosmic levelling.
Sipping her wine, she watched the flames enveloped the house they’d both loved, the house he’d want for his next family.
Never was good at sharing.
Black cake is a Caribbean recipe I’ve never tried but that sounds rather amazing.