A Wee Prick

Sometimes the biggest problems have the smallest solutions

Image by OpenClipart-Vectors via Pixabay

I was sifting through the washing, holding my nose away from my boyfriend’s skid-marked undies when the condom fell out of his jeans pocket.

It took my brain a whole five seconds to work out the implications of what I was looking at, and another three to come up with a plan.

Not only did I do the bastard’s laundry, I was also stuck darning his socks.

Grinding my teeth, I took the smallest needle out of my sewing kit, and pierced the metallic packaging right in the middle. I ran my finger across its smooth surface to make sure the damage was invisible, then wedged the condom back inside his pocket and threw his jeans in the wash with all the rest of his dirty clothes.

I gave no sign that I knew what he was up to and pretended to be too sick or tired for sex, so I didn’t have to endure his touch.

I can bide my time.

Sure enough, three months later he came home looking stricken and asked to talk with me in the dining room.

We sat on opposite sides of the table in front of two untouched cups of tea. I gave him no indication that I knew what he was about to say, and I didn’t encourage him with a smile. He fretted with the edge of the tablecloth, unsure how to proceed. I let him squirm.

After a few minutes of this, he finally blurted out that he’d been having an affair with Shona — that fat cow! — and that he’d gotten her pregnant.

“It was an accident!” he cried.

“Oh, aye,” I said. “You just tripped over when you were both in the nuddy, I’m sure.”

“Naw,” he said. “We used precautions. Condoms.”

My moment had arrived. I removed the needle from my apron pocket and placed it on the table, gauging his reaction.

He was as clueless as ever. I wondered for the nth time what I’d ever seen in the creep.

“One quick stab and it was all over. Just like the sex, I’m sure.”

His face was a contorted mask of utter confusion. I must confess I enjoyed seeing it, far more than I’d thought I would. Slowly, understanding dawned.

“It was you.”

“Naw,” I said. “It was you and Shona. I just made sure the pair of you are stuck together for the rest of your miserable lives.”

He wanted to rage, to kick and punch and blame the world, but I wouldn’t let him; I had one more card left to play.

“A wee prick for a wee prick.” I wiggled my pinky finger, to emphasize the point.

He had the wherewithal to flush with shame.

He got up from the table to leave, telling me he’d be back for his stuff at a later date, no doubt under the cover of darkness.

I watched him go, but couldn’t resist one last parting shot:

“I doubt Shona will wash your skid-marked undies for you!”

A roar went up from the neighbours. I heard them laugh and jeer as he made his way down the street with his head bowed.

“Wee prick,” I said and made my way upstairs: I had a date to get ready for.

A former columnist for Cracked, Matt Cowan’s fiction has appeared in Daily Science Fiction and The Arcanist. He won first prize in the New Deal Writing Competition 2019 and was shortlisted for the TSS Flash Fiction 400. On Medium, his work has been published by Lit Up, P.S. I Love You and Slackjaw, among others.