Venice Is Nice This Time Of Year
Even after his death he managed to cause trouble. I could see him sitting in the empty chair in the corner smiling his devilish grin and enjoying the disquiet I felt. Why did he keep appearing? Why didn't he seek his eternal rest somewhere nice? This time of year Venice is nice. I remember sitting outside a café near the Rialto bridge people watching, with him smoking and drinking his malt whisky that cost a fortune.
He kept appearing at the most inappropriate moments, like when I was just about to orgasm with my latest lover. He wasn't my husband, he was my first lover, so he had no right to haunt me.
It wasn't my fault that he'd fell into the canal. Maybe I was a bit late in calling the emergency services. I had tried to catch hold of his arm before he disappeared under the grimy waters. The police had appealed for the Australian woman who had made the emergency call to come forward. Even though I say it myself I've always been good at accents.
I heard his wife was really upset and I sympathise with her loss. I'm pleased she received a big pay out from the insurance company. If he'd done what he'd threatened, leave her and live with me, she would have been in financial strife and I would have been stifled.
I catch up with his replacement, a nice man that makes me laugh, we link arms and I make sure we never walk along the canal path. Maybe I'll plan a mountain walk or white water rafting. I see my dead lover watching me and I smile, I think he will walk beside me for ever.