Flash Fiction: Remote Control

“Pass the remote control,” he demanded. “The colour’s gone all wrong.”
“Looks fine to me,” she replied, squinting at the telly.
“Those trees shouldn’t be purple, look…”
She looked.
“And it’s too bright.”
She liked it bright.
Buttons were pressed, levels were changed. A smile took the place of his frown.
“See, that’s much better,” he said. “Those trees are the proper colour now.”
“Go and put the kettle on, love,” she said to him.
And when he plodded to the kitchen, she took control of the remote.
The trees were purple again.

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