Finally, after an age of this farcical stuff, he keeled over and hit the floor. He stumbled around the room, grieving and complaining, blood following blood onto his buttocks and legs. Indeed she lost count of the wounds she made, her attack lent venom by his refusal to lie down and die. She was already drawing the knife out, and plunging into him a second time, and now a third and a fourth. She brought the knife down in the middle of his pockmarked back. He had got the door open by inches, but not far enough. Across to where the knife lay, up, and back toward him in one fluid motion. But the blood was drying on her hands, and its stickiness revolted her. She stopped in her tracks, almost tempted to go back. She opened one cut, and then another.Īs she moved down the landing she heard the room groan-there was no other word for it. The knife was in him a moment after, slicing his belly with the ease of a blade in overripe cheese. His pace was too quick to see the blade until the very last moment, and even then it was bemusement that crossed his face, not fear. If the ring on his finger hadn't already given his status away, she would have known him to be a married man by the underpants he wore: baggy and overwashed, an unflattering garment bought by a wife who had long since ceased to think of her husband in sexual terms. She let the knife lie.What is it? she asked, turning to look at him.

There was only the dim light that crept through the age-beaten blind. She looked to the wall, expecting it to tremble and spit her lover from hiding. It was enough to have him like thisShe reached into the jacket pocket. She shrugged a small shrug, and turned back to the door.

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