Breakfast in paradise

They lie awake, her husband cursing the night’s mosquitoes for the livid lumps girdling his belly.

‘Leave them’ she whispers, ‘they’re starting to bleed.’

They breakfast in silence on the hotel terrace, crisp linen fluttering in a gentle Madagascan breeze, his mobile seeping tiny acts of betrayal. As they leave, he pockets warm bread rolls.

Now he’s waist deep in crystal water, shoals of emerald fish jostling for the soft white flakes he offers.

He doesn’t see the fin, doesn’t hear the great gasp as dagger-edged jaws stretch wide.

The hands on his shattered Rolex are frozen forever at 10.03 as the severed arm drifts away.

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