This flash fiction of a so-called godwoman unmasks the underlying hypocrisy, selfishness and the greed for power and control.

She always finds his voice like warm water. Never boiling, no. It has a nice warmth to it without ever being tepid. She closes her eyes and breathes in his voice even though it mostly sounds like distant babble to her right now. It smells like sunshine on the grass.

He wants food. She is the giver of food. Sometimes, especially now, she feels that she has ceased to be the wife and is merely the caregiver, the provider. She picks up her bag and decides she will walk home, delaying her arrival as far as possible.

Memory works somewhat like that for you. A few days strike out marvelously, rainbow-hued, or grey, sensorial, almost all of them from travels, ever since you were a little girl.

He wanted to start thinking about anything that would inhabit his mind, move it without the slightest imposition.