The click of his keys in the front door. What’s for dinner?
“What’s for dinner?”
“Pasta,” she says, slicing vegetables.
She looks out of the window at the car they painted together during the heady early days of their marriage. Their road trip car.
“Let’s drive to San Francisco!”
“Now isn’t a good time.”
“Why not? We have savings. We’re still young. No…kids…tying us down….”
“We have work tomorrow…responsibilities….”
She begins to fade, thinking about the ugly house she hates that will probably be her coffin, the same restaurant they visit every week for date night, all of the trips not taken and the babies that never came and the stink of garbage and dirty dishes and musty, closed-in guest rooms and there’s an explosion. Screams and flashes of red. She emerges from the fog to see him at her feet, bleeding and unmoving. She drops the knife, shivering with fear and disgust and grief, yet grateful that finally, something was different.