We eat our microwave dinners on trays in front of the television.
I listen to him chew, mouth wide open. His teeth clink the silver of the fork.
I stare at him. He turns to me, eyes flat.
He focuses back on the television.
I thrust the knife into his neck.
He chokes on his meatloaf. Blood spits onto the cream colored carpet.
I twist it.
Mashed potatoes smear his shirt. Gravy slides down the tv tray.
He reaches towards me. I grab his hand. I hold it until he stops breathing.
I get up and strut toward the kitchen sink. Lather my hands in lavender scented soap and wash the blood and gravy down the drain.
I let out a deep sigh of relief.
“Babe, bring me a beer,” he yells from the living room.
