Irene stressed. Slightly disheveled. Dropped ice cubes. Poured whiskey into a glass and rapidly started stirring. Donald would be coming into the house. She'd heard the garage door open and close.
"Where's my drink?" Donald asked, putting down his briefcase. "You know I want it when I get home.”
"On top of the kitchen counter, where I always put it." Irene started to walk out of the room.
"Where the hell do you think you're going? Bring me my drink." He walked over to a kitchen chair and sat. "Now. Bring me my drink."
"Bring me my drink."
"And if I don't?
"Ha!" He sniggered. "You'll bring it."
Only married me so you could have a servant, Irene thought. But it's over.
With the drink in her hand, she walked over to Donald.
Half an hour later, Irene set the dining room table. In the center, a roast with vegetables on a platter and a tossed green salad in a wooden bowl.
"Dinner's ready," Irene called, feeling nothing but hatred. She hated his voice. She hated his laugh. She hated his walk. She even hated his digestion.
"Don't start," Donald yelled out from the bedroom, and then he stretched out on top of the bed. Dinner could wait.
Irene sat at the table, fearful anxiety fell over her. She got up, looked out the window, and stared into the darkness. Why does he do this? Living this way is impossible.
Seven strikes went off on the grandfather clock in the living room.
Donald came into the room. "You didn't cheat and start eating. Did you?" He sat and reached for the meat. He looked at Irene. "Are you hungry?"
"I've been sitting here for the past thirty minutes. What the hell were you doing?" She felt a pounding in her chest. "I... I want a divorce."
"Oh, and where do you think you're going? "He picked up a carving knife and fork. He smirked. "You haven't got a job. How far do you think you'd get without money? Come on, trusty wife, tell me."
"I've got a mother. She'll help me."
"That old hag help you?" he laughed as he cut into the roast. "This stuff is cold. Heat it."
She reached for the platter. With the food in her hands, she walked to the kitchen.
Eleven o'clock. Winds blowing, thunder rumbling, the moon had gone out, and so had the lights.
While stepping noiselessly in her bare feet, Irene moved blindly across the carpeted floor. She struck a match, lit a votive candle on top of the bedroom dresser, and took a handgun out of a drawer. I'm not dead. I wish I were. I don't care about anything.
With the gun in her hand, she walked to the king-sized bed.