By Chris Glithero
All she could think of was how she would get the blood out of her clothes. Wasn’t baking soda supposed to be good for that kind of thing? White wine? Disposing of the body, that would be harder.
Their marriage had been through a lot over the years, but they had never murdered each other before, not once.
It had been self-defense, clearly. Things had got heated, one thing led to another, she had been chopping veg at the time, so the knife was already in her hand. Would it stand up in court?
“Your honor, as witnessed by the broccoli remnants on exhibit A, my client was clearly attempting to cook dinner at the time of the victim’s death, to which she cannot be held accountable for her actions.”
“Objection! Broccoli is the devil’s own vegetable and tastes like feet!”
“Sustained. The defendant is sentenced to online cookery lessons for all eternity!”
He had kept pushing her until she couldn’t take it anymore. “…there’s Enchanted Jungle, Mantis Delight, Marbled Lime…Pine Sunset #47!”
She shivered at the memory of him standing there, eager-faced, color wheel held aloft.
Green just wasn’t a kitchen color. She knew that deep down he knew she was right. A bathroom, maybe, possibly even a bedroom, but a kitchen? A kitchen!
Of course it’s never only about the thing that the thing is about, oh no. This was years of repressed resentment bubbling to the surface. He’d never forgiven her for the time in their twenties when she’d told him it would be silly to quit his job at the bank and retrain as a fire juggler.
She’s always suspected, but the longer a thing is left unsaid, the harder it becomes to crystallize into language. It liquifies and becomes an acrid cloying bile that sticks to the inside of the throat, choking and constricting, until all that’s left is bitter acceptance.
He always said she over-thought things, but she knew he secretly seethed inside.
She wondered how often arguments over silly little things spiral out of control and the ensuing events eclipse all reasonable expectations for civilized discourse.
“Hmm? Sorry, darling?”
“We could paint the kitchen blue.”
She sighed and surgically sliced the stalk off another head of broccoli.“Oh yes, blue sounds lovely.”