Gristle 
First published in Friday Flash Fiction
FFF Summer Competition shortlist


She rubbed salt into the meat, cooked it in butter, plated it with peas and potatoes.

More than you deserve, you bastard, she thought, and placed it down in front of him.

‘Pinot noir?’

‘No, I’m working tonight,’ he said.

She filled her glass.

‘This looks delicious.’

‘Enjoy,’ she said. ‘You deserve it.’

He wolfed it down, gristle and all.

Eight years together and he still considers me an idiot, even with the Ph.D.

He left to continue his affair, but tonight his whore wouldn’t show up. Tomorrow I’ll serve him another part of her, she thought, in a honey glaze.