She tried to twist the lid free. It was no use. Stupid goddamned pickle jar. All she wanted was one fucking pickle.
He had always been handy for things like that.
Not for listening.
Or caring.
Not for discussing feelings.
Not for protecting her heart or drying her tears.
She didn’t need him for any of that stuff anyway. But man, he could open a jar.
After days of surviving the marathon sob sessions and torturous loneliness, she sat in the kitchen floor with a sealed jar of pickles. For the first time, she was certain that she was going to die.
Conceited Crusade 
Reblogged this on listentothebabe and commented:
I distrust men with insight into a woman’s soul. That last line: ‘For the first time, she was certain that she was going to die.’ Bugger.
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I loved that the image of her character became gradually clearer with each line and then by then end I knew her completely. Great build
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Thanks
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God help all the lads out there who can’t open jars.
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See those wrist workouts have a purpose. Darwinian almost.
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Love this. It set off the synchronicity alarm for me. So long as there are jars of pickles we’ll still be “handy”, right?
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I put sugar water under the edge of each and every lid. Job security.
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Where the hell did this come from? It’s bloody good. Maybe I need to make my hiatus permanent. Loved the line: But man, he could open a jar.
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I wrote it. Randomly. I’m just as confused as you are but it happened.
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Take the bloody compliment. 🙂
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Thank you.
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