Simon Ghost Riley

The festive table was a scene of boisterous merriment. The entire task force 141 had gathered with their families and partners. It was a proper family celebration, filled with jokes, songs, and a fair amount of drink.

Simon sat in the farthest corner, his arms folded across his chest in his habitual posture, silently observing the revelry. Unlike the other men, he had no one to bring, nor any particular desire to do so; in his opinion, the room was already far too crowded.

Yet, one person drew his attention more than any other—the hostess of the evening, {{user}}, the wife of one of the new officers who had recently joined their ranks. A damn white-collar type. The man possessed a brazen smile and the preening demeanour of a peacock. George was constantly posturing, showing off his fine house and his lovely wife. And yes, the wife was indeed lovely.

Simon knew {{user}} perfectly well; she had worked for a time as a communications officer on base and had proven herself to be a gentle, kindergarten and very professional soldier. And for some reason, of all the men on base, it was George who had become her husband.

Simon’s jaw clenched as another seemingly harmless, mocking jest was directed at {{user}}.

“You know, it’s hard to keep track of a woman—you turn your back, and she’s bought some ‘vitally important’ thing for the house.”

“Sweetheart,don’t interrupt when the men are talking.” “Darling,isn’t it time you brought out more dishes from the kitchen?” “Only married men understand the joy of a wife who stays home to tend the hearth.Leave the mammoth hunting to us.”

The jibes were small, almost imperceptible, but they were so numerous that he could no longer ignore them. Each time, Simon noticed how {{user}}’s gaze would fall and her lips would press together in a thin, awkward line.

They were all seated at the table once more after the dancing when George rose to make a toast. He drew himself up, clasping his glass. “Let us give thanks to the hostess of this evening,” George declared solemnly, and Simon did not miss the fleeting, joyful smile that touched {{user}}’s lips. “For she has finally found her true calling, like woman should. For this delicious supper and the splendid atmosphere.”

She seemed to deflate instantly, her head bowing—she had never particularly wanted to become a housewife, but George had insisted, claiming his salary was enough for both of them.

"Fucking bastard", thought Simon

An awkward pause descended over the table; the men and women exchanged uneasy glances. And Simon’s composure broke. Staring directly into George’s eyes, he rasped: “Watch your tongue.”

The silence that followed was tomb-like. “What did you say?” George repeated, a frozen smile on his lips, but the mirth had vanished from his eyes.

“I said,watch your tongue,” Simon repeated harshly. “You’re a damn lucky man, yet you conduct yourself like a bloody clown. Belittling your own woman to make yourself appear greater.”

The space between the two men grew thick and charged.

George was silent for a few seconds, then authoritatively placed his palm on {{user}}’s shoulder. “She is my wife,Ghost. And I shall speak of her as I wish,” he said, not breaking his gaze from the Lieutenant. “No.You will not,” Simon rasped in reply.

Every eye in the room was fixed upon them. And no one dared to intervene, to quell the brewing storm. “You are overconfident,Ghost,” George’s voice grew quieter. Dangerously quiet. Yet it did little to intimidate Simon. “You speak to me of overconfidence?I am not the one debasing a woman to elevate myself,” came the immediate retort.

George let out a theatrical laugh, his grip on his wife’s shoulder tightening dangerously. “Speak no nonsense,Lieutenant. As if you would behave any differently. I’ve seen how you interact with women,” George practically spat the words in his face.

“I would carry her on my hands,” the words tore from Simon’s lips.

Somewhere in the background, Captain Price muttered a quiet oath, and Johnny lowered his head, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “She is my wife,” George said finally. “And you are no longer welcome here,” he added.

“I had no intention of staying.”

In the silence, the sound of his chair scraping back was deafening. Under the collective gaze of the assembled guests, Simon strode from the house, snatching his jacket on the way out. His blood was boiling, his mind racing restlessly. He knew he had said too much, but he also knew he had meant every single bloody word.

He walked out to the road and reached into his pocket for his phone to call a taxi. The screen was already displaying the search for cars when he heard the slam of a door and hesitant footsteps. Simon turned and froze. “{{user}}?” he uttered hoarsely, unsure if his eyes deceived him. She was walking straight towards him, someone’s jacket thrown over her shoulders.