The Perfect Excuse

Bright, bloody liquid trickled from her hand down her freckled forearm in a steady stream. It was cooler than she had expected. And thinner. Not that she’d really given it much thought. This was more impulsive; a spur of the moment action. Somewhere in the depths of her despair, she had come across the convoluted conclusion that it might satisfy her rage, soothe her. It hadn’t. Of course, that was to be expected.
The knife, carefully selected from the wooden block, that she’d been using mere moments earlier was laying on the terracotta tiles, just over to her left. She only noticed it there now because somewhere off in the distance, a cloud had shifted, drifted, blown away by the autumn breeze, unveiling a ray of sun that perfectly—so perfectly you’d think it was planned—illuminated the sharp, red-streaked blade through the window above the sink. A few stray splotches attempted to blend in with the clay-colored floor. A crimson camouflage.
She couldn’t take her eyes off of him. He was perfectly still, staring back at her with a look of… what? She couldn’t quite put her tremulous finger on it. Confusion? Annoyance? Loathing? Whatever it was, it seemed permanent. Like his face might remain like that for the rest of her life. Perhaps for eternity. Is this how she’d be forced to remember him? It was unbearably gruesome to contemplate. At least she would have their old photographs. Although, he rarely expressed more than a look of mild disdain in those as well. That was just him.
She loved him so much. She had given him everything: the best years of her life, her virginity, her soul, her hopes, dreams, respect, her love, her admiration. Where had things gone so wrong? It couldn’t have been when they first met and she’d promised him he’d be the only man to ever touch her. Nor could it have been on their third wedding anniversary when she’d presented him with the hickory leather briefcase he’d been drooling over. And it definitely couldn’t have been last year when she’d bought that satin lingerie set and surprised him at the office. No. It couldn’t have been any of those times.
So, when was it? When did things change? There must be someone else. There had to be! It was the only explanation—no matter how ghastly the thought was. But when had he had the time to find someone else? He worked around the clock, he mowed the lawn, he spent lethargic weekends reading the newspaper with a cigar and a whiskey. They took vows. Didn’t that mean anything to him? Who was he to take the Lord’s name in vain and swear to something he had no intention of keeping? That alone was grounds for murder. It would be justified. A crime of passion, they’d call it. It would be splashed everywhere: Housewife murders her philandering husband in a fit of frenzied adoration!
However, none of it mattered anyway because he was—
“Joanna? Did you hear what I said? I’m leaving you.” His face had now contorted into a look of sheer pity. As if he thought she were too thick to understand the situation. His scruffy brows knitted together while his mouth, sheltered by an equally as scruffy mustache, turned down at the corners in a small frown. The wrinkles on his forehead seemed to slice his thick skull in two. His meaty thumb worked at loosening his tie. Did he feel like he was suffocating? She did.
It was like she’d been submerged deep underwater for the last five minutes. Suddenly, his words came rushing, flooding, barreling into her ears, her brain, and finally, her heart. Leaving her? He was leaving her? That was preposterous! It simply wasn’t true; it couldn’t be true. Her eyes fluttered over to her right hand which was tensed around a fresh, plump tomato, its juices dribbling along her pale skin in a cool trickle. A few seeds caught in her freshwater pearl bracelet; a birthday gift from her husband. Who, if he had his way, wouldn’t be her husband for much longer.
Tomato juice. Yes, back to the tomato juice. She’d been making spaghetti, his favorite. The kitchen was redolent with oregano and basil. He was due back home that evening from a business trip to Atlanta and she’d wanted to make sure that he had his favorite meal simmering on the stove so that when he walked through their heavy oak door, he would instantly smell the bubbling red sauce and feel at ease as he slipped off his shoes and then slipped his arms around her. Home. Here, in this ninth-floor apartment. With her.
But now he was home early and he was at the edge of the kitchen and he was leaving her. Leaving? Where would he go? Where could he go? His mother lived all the way upstate. He couldn’t stay with a friend, they would ask too many questions. Besides, she was friends with all of their wives and wives gossip. He wasn’t the type of man to enjoy being quizzed or whispered about. He asked the questions and that’s all there was to it.
There had to be someone else. There just had to be. But who? The redheaded secretary from his office? (That brazen hussy!) Or the divorcée that lived two doors down? (The sinful slut!) Some blonde bimbo with offensively large breasts he met on the plane coming home from Atlanta? (A rotten Georgia peach!) Someone he met here? Where? When? How?
Slowly, she wiped her hand on the lace-trimmed apron she’d tied around her hourglass waist, bent down and reached for the vegetable cleaver.
“Who is she?”
“Who?”
“Don’t lie to me, George.” She flicked the knife in his direction; a few spots of tomato juice landed on his stark-white starched button-down. It was one of three shirts she had washed, ironed, and folded to painstaking precision before he’d left on business. She had cared so much for him and how did he thank her? By screwing someone else and screwing her over. Well, screw you George, she thought.
“Jo, honey. Stop with the theatrics. Let’s talk about this like adults. Can you do that for me? Huh?”
“Who is she?” Her blood simmered more rapidly than the would-be sauce. She could hear it gurgling.
“Who is who?”
“The tramp you’ve been going to bed with.”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake Joanna! There’s nobody else.”
“Tell me the truth, George. Don’t I deserve at least that bit of kindness?”
“Jesus. I just don’t love you anymore! I haven’t for a long time. Haven’t you ever heard of people falling out of love? It happens, you know.”
Forget falling out of love, Joanna felt like she was falling off the top of the Empire State Building. Any second now she would go splat on the busy sidewalk. She felt completely lifeless; her soul vanished from its captivity.
Regaining her composure, she took a long, laborious inhale. Then, her mind went blank. She allowed herself to surrender fully to her seething emotions. There wasn’t about to be any of this “leaving” nonsense. After all, being a widow is much more attractive than being a divorced woman of twenty-three. If God didn’t believe in divorce, then neither did she.
Confidently, she strode the five steps it took to reach him, her maroon kitten heels echoing on the tiles with each pace. Clip, clop, clip, clop, clip.
“Jo…” His forehead creased and his lips hung slightly askew. “Honey?” He sure wasn’t pitying her now. Quite the opposite.
“You insipid asshole,” she spat.
Joanna plunged the knife into his chest, then his gut, and finally, for good measure, once more into the general area where she assumed his dysfunctional ticker must be. If he still had one. She wouldn’t be surprised if when the autopsy came back—if it came to that, of course, but she would ensure that it didn’t—they found nothing but droplets of melted ice. Son of a bitch! And husband of a well-formed widow.
His body fell into a pathetic heap at her feet. His eyes bugged out, large and afraid. Incredulous. By George! (And bye, George.) He hadn’t thought she would actually do it.
Blood pooled all around him, and although the stress of how she’d remove the stain would usually cause her to lose sleep, she wasn’t concerned. She had been meaning to have the kitchen redone one of these days anyway. Better sooner than later. It was the perfect excuse.
Twisting on the hot water tap, she casually rinsed the lustrous blade, a mix of warm blood and tomato juice spiraling down the drain.
The knife needed to be spotless. She would deal with her dead husband later.
She had spaghetti to make.

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