My writing pal and I sat in the café drinking hot chocolate. Who says the South of France is warm in winter? We met for our flash fiction writing exercises. When it is warmer we use people on the street as a trigger, but this today not that many people were out and we resorted to the first sentence of a book that the café keeps for its Anglo readers, The Butcher of St. Peter is the source of the first line. "I slept well."

 "I slept well," Frank said. he sat at the table in front of the stove and made sure that his robe was fascinated. The chill was more not just the temperature registering on the thermometer. What should he do next? Get his own coffee, he decided. He chose the red mug. The smell of coffee filled his nostrils as he took his first sip.

"Jeanne, my love, did you sleep well?" Frank asked.

His wife had been slamming around the bed and bathrooms for the last half hour before storming downstairs.

He threw the covers off, put on his robe and followed her.

Jeanne put on the coffee maker, opened the fridge and took out milk and jam. She banged the door so hard that it bounced open.




Jeanne passed by without touching him to pick up her toast. She spread it with jam and then put the jar back in the fridge.


"I get the feeling you're angry with me."

Jeanne took the toast and poured her coffee into her blue mug and sat down. When she bit into the toast the crunch broke the silence.

"I don't know what I did." He was sure her birthday and their anniversary was next month.

Last night, he'd come home late from a golf game. The guys decided to eat at the club and play a few hands of poker. His wife had been asleep when he slipped into bed.

She stared at him. "I don't believe you."

He frowned.

"I sat in the restaurant with your parents and my mother for three hours. The waiter kept asking when the birthday boy was arriving." She grabbed her coffee and left the room.