On the terrace

On the marble terrace, in a seaweed coat, the man sat on his swing. The hint of tea in his glass of lemon was not quite strong enough. "Fucking Iris," he thought, and felt it was time again. They never last long, but this one unusually so. The rat poison this time perhaps, or the ceremonial knife in the head. There's the axe in the shed, or the cement in the garden. The barrel of red in the cellar kept him occupied for a while, but he didn't want any stains. After all, he snickered, who would scrub it out after she's gone? He twisted a string around this finger, notion after notion.