The Crying Game
She fondled the vial of succinylcholine. Could she bring herself to add it to his tea?
She regretted writing the note now. Eyes would focus on her as the spouse. The note would seal her fate. Still, to be rid of him, it might be worth it. She lifted the vial to the tea. Unable to squeeze. It wasn’t in her. Tears came. Tears of frustration.
She heard the door. Home already? She grabbed a carving knife and onion to mask her tears.
Frain entered the kitchen. Right hand waving her note. “We should talk about this.”
“Is there anything still to talk about?” Sniffled. One time. Couldn’t stop it.
“No need to cry.”
“I’m not crying. It’s the -”
“I think we can handle this like adults. Two things bother me about your note.”
He wants to talk! Maybe he can change. Maybe he can become the man she married. For a flicker, she remembered Frain behind the volunteer table on race morning, handing her packet, the contents spilling, both of them laughing…
“Your third sentence needs an oxford comma. I get that I’m a liar and a cheat, but he casual reader will not understand you also expect me to practice a little housework.”
Did she hear him right? Was he going to start helping with housework?
“Even more egregious? Nit-picky gets a hyphen, especially here where it’s modifying asshole. Still, nothing to cry over. We can fix it.”
“It’s the onion making me cry, you nit picky asshole!” She hurled the onion at him. Somehow it stuck to his tie.
She’d forgotten to remove the carving knife.
Tip o’ the cap to Kathy Joyce, a fellow Reider, who knew I was struggling with O and sent this:
Oleo (long, slow death) olio (death by combination of things) and “Oh, Leo” (death by orgasm).
Alas, I couldn’t improve on hers, so I had to switch to Onion. Tomorrow, P, is based on a real-life incident. Be sure to check back!