She can hear her husband stirring in the room below. It’s a hard stir. Laboured. He lights the gas lamp. The hot plate is on but he has forgotten. Fuck when his forearm remembers. Another wound for Rose to dress in the morning, when he is half-asleep.
Theirs is a life of halves. Roger has taken the nights; leaving Rose the days. He paints letters, complete with demands.
Get sausages!
and a sausage that could as easily be a turd, or a cock.
He’s all there on the page – lover, tyrant, painter – and signs it Love, R – their shared initial.
Roger Hilton in his ground floor studio, Rose Hilton, 1974
Brutal - and sounds horribly real. Love the way you get in two characters their setting and relationship. And specially Love the sausage turd cock threesome.