She looked down at her hands, noting their sharp contrast with the soft, white linen. Working hands, darkened to nut brown by the sun, with an assortment of broken nails that she never quite found time to trim or file.

Once upon a time they had been manicured and polished - soft hands, lover's hands, moisturised and pampered, with nails that shone in a plethora of vibrant colours. They'd come a long way since then - housewife hands, mother's hands, 'hands that do dishes', hardened and calloused.

Such intimate things, hands. Holding, stroking, caressing, slapping, pinching - so much emotion, love to loathing in the blink of an eye.

She looked down. Down beyond the bright, white pillowcase, and noticed his chest was no longer rising and falling. She held on for a few more moments, just to be sure, then lifted the pillow and gently put in to one side. She had done it. Now to collect her reward.

by Georgia Martin