Pandora's Closet

JACK’S MANTLE by Joe Masdon

Bob was miserable. The kids were away for the day with Brenda’s mother, and her idea of quality time with her husband involved book fairs and consignment stores. She had been smiling all day, and he irritably began to wonder if part of her smile came from the knowledge that she was driving him violently insane. The novelty of morning romance had been good, but that had been the only ten minutes that he had enjoyed of the past three hours. Enjoyed? Tolerated. Ten minutes of routine, passionless sex with his wife was way too little payment for a day filled with flea markets and pottery shops.

She despises me.

As they entered crap-for-sale shop no. 5, she smiled blissfully at him as if they were part of some happy cruise ship commercial. His weary half-smile as he held the door didn’t slow her down. She hurried into the shop purposefully, cooing about some sugar bowl she’d noticed as they entered. Clearly the sex was better for her than it was for him to keep her in this gooey-eyed mood all morning.

God, I hate her.

Fifteen minutes later, Bob wasn’t sure where Brenda was in the store, and he didn’t much care as long as it was away from him. He was ambling carelessly down a few aisles, looking spitefully at the junk that stuffed the store claustrophobically. It was a big store, and shelves and clothing racks went from floor to ceiling. He had been stomping around angrily, but misery took a lot of effort to maintain, particularly when it was really just exaggerated boredom.

After a while he found himself looking lazily through the men’s coats. For some reason, there seemed to be more men’s coats here than just about anything else. They were too tightly packed to actually move the hangers, but he fingered the fabric and pushed a few coats a half-inch or so, pretending that it gave him a better view of the merchandise. Amid the tightly bunched rows of shoulders and sleeves he would occasionally pull out a coat that he would vaguely reject and be unable to squeeze back into the rack. He left a trail of protruding half-coats and limp sleeves dangling into the narrow aisle.

Almost buried under the faded shoulder of a baby blue Members Only jacket and a stained London Fog trench coat was a garment that caught Bob’s eye. He jammed his hand in and felt something rough and woolen. He pulled on the hanger once, twice, and slowly pried the long black overcoat into view. Bob noted that the black overcoat had one of those peculiar-looking capes attached to it. It was worn thin in a lot of places, and even though it was bulky, it seemed a little narrow for him. More for amusement than for any serious intent, Bob looked for a size tag in the collar. There was no tag or label of any kind. It occurred to him that the overcoat was probably so old that all of the tags had frayed away. It looked like one of those things that got donated to community theaters and showed up in everything from Victorian England costumes to WWII Americana musicals.

Feeling theatrical, Bob pulled the ratty old overcoat off its hanger. Smiling at his silly impulse, he twirled it over his head and wedged his arms into the sleeves. He expected the shoulders to be narrow as he pulled his arms to his sides, but the coat slipped down very comfortably. The smell wasn’t that bad, but it could use a dry cleaning, he thought. The waist was in fact a bit tight, but the sleeves were close enough, and the shoulders felt good. He had planned to lose some weight anyway, so he sucked in his gut and buttoned it halfway. At the end of his sleeve, he felt the tickle of the cardboard price tag against his thumb. Catching the dangling tag, he glanced at the faded yellow sticker and nodded at the odd price of $18.88.

He decided that the cape part was stylish and gave him an international look He slid his hands down the sides of the coat looking for pockets, missed, tried again, missed again, then feeling around finally realized that there were no pockets on the outside. Bob was a bit deflated. No pockets… a deal breaker. He smiled disappointedly and prepared to return the overcoat to menswear limbo.

“What on earth are you wearing?” the voice was a mixture of amusement and reproach.

God, NOW she appears.

Holding out his arms, he turned toward his wife without looking, “You like it? I think it’s kind of neat.”

Sighing gently and shaking her head, Brenda raised her chin as she spoke, “I’m sure it is. I’m done. Sorry I took so long. Come on, put that back on the rack and we’re out of here, I promise.”

A command wrapped in an apology. Nice.

His breath shortened, and his lips tightened slightly. Bob did not look at his wife. “Winter’s coming. I could use a new coat.”

Her mind already jumping to the next location, Brenda offered, “Okay, let’s go to the coat outlet and find you something. I’m glad you mentioned it; I can look for a raincoat for David while we’re there. He’s outgrown the one from last year.”

Bob pulled a hatchet out of his pocket and slammed it into his wife’s skull. This time it only took one chop to shut her up.

Without a word, Bob picked up his old coat and the hanger and walked sideways down the aisle toward his wife.

“Honey, what are you…?” Brenda sighed in minor annoyance as her husband brushed past her and up to the checkout counter. He held out the price tag at the end of his sleeve for the clerk. He turned to his wife and noted the silver soup ladle and the commemorative RC Cola bottle in her hands with the yellow tags still on them. “You said you were done…?”

Plus the 6% sales tax, his black wool overcoat cape came to $20.01. The clerk called it $20 even.

Despite her misgivings about the ratty-looking old overcoat, Brenda had dutifully taken it in to be dry cleaned that week. She didn’t want the musty odor lingering in the closet, so she tossed it in with Bob’s work shirts and her dress suits. She resolved to get it cleaned as often as possible under the guise of showing concern for this thing that obviously meant so much to Bob. Her real hope was that it would fall apart under the cleanings.

It was Sunday evening, and they had just gotten home from visiting relatives. It had been a good day, and when Brenda had indicated that she did not feel like cooking, Bob suggested Mexican. Bob sat in the booth across from his wife and eight-year-old son. His teenage daughter sat next to him pretending that her parents and brother were strangers who had the audacity to sit at her table without asking. Autumn weather had come early that year, with lots of chilly wind.

To Brenda’s surprise, the old overcoat cape had not really drawn that much attention and it really didn’t look any worse than the denim jacket with the pharmaceutical company logo that her husband wore all too often. Bob had long ago learned not to ask his daughter to put his jackets on the inside of the booth next to her or, for that matter, to make any effort on his behalf. So he sat there wearing it, leaning over his plate when crunching salsa and chips. Bob eschewed his usual enchilada and beans and ordered the lowcarb fajitas. The good mood of the day was still in full swing as Bob and Brenda laughed along with their children.

A dozen girls walked in the restaurant, chattering. Facing the door, Bob saw them as they came in, and he tried very hard to look without being obvious. From the distance, they all seemed to be varieties of beautiful. His eyes lingered a few extra seconds at the moving jumble of firm young body parts that strained against T-shirts inside half-opened jackets and hips that curved into tight buttocks. With the practiced restraint of the middle-aged voyeur, he managed to suppress the words, “Oh, good God…” even though his lips still went through the motions.

Dear God, just tell me they aren’t high-schoolers.

There was the brief thought that looking at such young girls was revolting, or at least illegal, if they were underage. But the firm, full bodies still waved unabashedly at him from the edge of his vision. Besides, if they were in college, it was probably only revolting, not illegal. Yes, had to be college. Bob decided that a group of high school girls would not be out at a restaurant on a Sunday evening; they were probably from the private college down the street.

Bob noticed a couple of waiters quickly pulling tables together, and the dozen or so little packets of young female body parts were being led to them. The tables were off to his right, and behind Brenda’s field of vision, so Bob took a moment to give the female buffet a closer look. They were all attractive in that young way, and one or two made a definite impression. None of the girls actually giggled, and Bob recognized the casual, yet restrained, social dynamic of the college sorority in action.

He was disappointed to see that a few of the girls were wearing those blue jeans that squeeze a woman’s hips too low so that her bottom looks more narrow and boyish. But those same jeans that were so annoying from the back rode low in the front, providing a sample glimpse of tender, tanned stomach flesh. Jackets were being stripped off and hung on the backs of chairs. Bob spent a few too many seconds watching that particular spectacle, unable to look away. Round breasts shifted and heaved as arms and shoulders wriggled out of jackets. A couple of the T-shirts were tight enough that letters and logos across the front were hidden underneath curves that were far too perfect to be real, Bob thought.

He stifled a small groan by vigorously crunching into a chip he had been absently holding. Back to reality for the briefest of moments, he stole a glance toward Brenda and was relieved to see that she was fully occupied with trying to get a civil response from their daughter to some question or comment.

Careless. Don’t stare directly at it, moron.

Bob’s dinner arrived in a steaming cloud of sizzling red meat, onions, and peppers. Young David was impressed with his father’s loud meal, and for a few minutes Bob played with his food and his laughing son. When he finally glanced back toward the table of sorority girls, they had settled into their seats, and his view was mostly limited to the two girls on the end. One was wearing a blue blouse that hinted at money in her family. The blouse did not hug her body, so Bob had to settle for what entertainment he could derive from her face and hair. She was dark blond, with a sexy face that needed the help that her makeup gave it. Sure, she was pretty, but her eyes were a little too small for her face, and her nose was a little crooked. She tried to make her eyes look bigger by wearing too much eyeliner.

She spoke with confidence, and the others were quiet when she talked. The other girl on the end was tall and slim, with frosted blonde hair that framed a pixie-like face of doe eyes, a pert nose, and lips that stayed slightly open. She wore too-tight T-shirt and jeans. Bob noticed that she seemed to have very large breasts, but it was hard to be sure because she sat with her arms in front of her, and she leaned slightly toward the table. She was quiet, and her meal was very simple, and, Bob could tell, inexpensive.

He stole glances off and on during the meal, and he caught her a few times with her arms away from her body. Her breasts looked large and perfect, which Bob concluded was probably due more to bra than to nature. He mentally downgraded her beauty, chalking it up to technology in women’s underwear. He shook his head at his own foolishness for ogling a padded bra inside a T-shirt. Then a hint of shame kicked in. She was a little girl who was insecure and self-conscious and was beautiful, but far from a sexual fantasy for a respectable, middle-aged family man.

This is a new low, even for you.

For a while, he made a conscious effort to avoid looking at the girls half his age. Then he stole another glance.

The frosted-haired beauty on the end sat quietly on the fringe, submissively listening to the other girls while half of the chicken quesadilla grew cold on her plate. She had leaned back in her chair and stretched her legs until her body was almost straight under the table. Her thumbs were in her pockets, pulling the waist of her jeans low against her stomach, and her T-shirt rode up a little more showing about an inch of tanned stomach.

Bob could see soft ripples of firm female muscles that no specially designed lingerie could fake. His breath quickened as his gaze lingered on her. She laughed slightly at something that one of the others said. Her stomach tightened as she leaned forward, and the softer parts of her body moved gently along with her laugh, dispelling any criticisms.

His breathing got shallow.

He imagined feeling her narrow shoulders in his hands.

He touched the warm, smooth flesh of her arms under his fingertips. She held her wrists above her head, making her body even leaner and firmer. Her head turned slightly to the left, eyes looking away. Her body quivered as he ran his hands back up her arms and across the hollow of her neck, down between her breasts and along the amazing line of her stomach. Stopping at her stomach, he could feel her flesh tingle in anticipation. Her body tensed as his finger again cut a teasing line from her neck down her rigid, muscular stomach. She groaned and started to protest.

The shy, needful little slut.

He raised his hand back between her breasts, and his finger swept slowly to the right, under the soft, yielding flesh, tracing the muscles of her rib. His finger returned to caress the rib.

She awaited his masterful touch, like the good little whore she is.

Growing bolder, he set his finger tracing along her left hipbone, starting at the center and moving away as a tease. Then he traced the right. She was ready for him, he knew. He could feel the heat of her body. He reached down her smooth, tanned legs. He was poised above her now as she gasped in pain. He reached down to her warm, wet body and gently pulled the intestines aside so they would not obstruct his view. His hands retraced her remarkable stomach muscles again; then he wrapped both hands around her stomach, cradling it as he lovingly pulled it from her.

There was something wrong, he realized. Looking at her firm, beautiful body, he saw that his finger had been too sharp and too insistent. He had stabbed her tender stomach into raw strips. As he stood there feeling the warm, dripping flesh in his hands, he saw strips of partially eaten meat spilling from her stomach. Blood covered his hands and clothes, dripping on his suit and overcoat, down to his shoes. Where the blood dripped on his jacket, it disappeared into the fabric.

His pulse quickened, and his head began to spin. He saw the frost-haired beauty beneath him, the smooth, tanned skin of her torso peeled back to reveal the warm, wet, bloody organs glistening under her mutilated flesh.

Bob’s eyes were glassy and blinking, and his chest began to heave. His breath was coming in shallow bursts, and he began to twitch in the seat.

“Bob?” Brenda noticed his distress, and dread began to creep up on her.

Bob’s breathing became more urgent. He felt a pain under his left armpit, and he could smell the awful taste of seared flesh and stomach acid. He started at the sound of his name, and he heard a small cry of fear. He shook his head hard, and the image that filled his vision was of a woman’s face. In his hands was a stomach, still dripping blood, acid, and strips of seared flesh, red peppers, and brown onions, uneaten on his festive plate. He pushed back from the table and away from the plate of steak and peppers.

Then he felt a horrifying pressure against his pants. He felt his bile rising, even as other fluids worked for release. With the odor of acid, bloody flesh, peppers and onions screaming in his head, he jumped up from the table and stumbled toward the door. With just enough presence of mind, he pulled the caped overcoat closed in front as he bent over and staggered crookedly for escape.

Outside the restaurant, he fell to his knees in a patch of grass and vomited. Between heaves, he prayed to a god he did not believe in to take away the painful, intolerable erection.

What the hell is happening to me?

Brenda fell to the ground beside her vomiting husband and put her arm around him. She was shaking in fear. Slowly, Bob’s stomach slowed, and the smells in his head faded.

Don’t touch me!

The disgusting presence in his pants was still straining.

“Honey?” a timid, hopeful voice reached Bob.

“I’m okay.” He said. Realizing how weak it sounded.

She was crying a bit, but she was still holding his kneeling, hunched-over form. “Bob, what happened? Should I take you to a doctor? I’m calling an ambulance!”

“No!” His voice bordered on panic. “No. I just got sick. Bad peppers maybe.” He was running out of composure. “Go back inside, I’ll be right there. I just need a minute.” The smell of vomit was lingering in his mouth and from beneath him on the grass, but he could not stand up yet. Not yet.

“I don’t think I should…”

“Brenda!”

Bitch! Do what I tell you!

“Brenda… go tell the kids that I’m okay. David looked scared.”

Stupid cow!

She slowly rose, her hands still on him.

And stop touching me when I’m puking!

“I’ll be right back, Bob, I’m just going to go tell the kids you’ll be all right. I’ll be right back!”

Go!

He heard her retreating steps, and she was saying something to some other people, one with a Hispanic accent. Bob vaguely noted that someone from the restaurant had made it all the way to the door and had been watching from the safe distance of the doorway. A small, concerned crowd was gaping through the windows. The embarrassing pressure in his pants was easing. To his surprise, he heard in a trembling voice, “Sir, are you all right? We know first aid. Can we help?”

Looking up, Bob saw a girl. He had to look up past her chest to see a concerned face, pure and unblemished, ringed by frosted blond hair.

NO!

A part of him stirred, and he said viciously, “Go away! Go very, very far away!”

Another Saturday without the kids. It was cold and raining outside, so rather than rush from the car to an annoying succession of junk stores, the wife had given him a dutiful dose of bland morning sex and dragged him to the mall. The mall was a little less fatiguing sometimes, because it had a Cookie Hut and the store with the expensive electronic toys. After forty-five minutes in Macy’s, Brenda finally acknowledged the reeking boredom on Bob’s face. He stood with bags from Yankee Candle and Bath and Body Works drooping in the one hand.

“Honey…” No response from Bob. “Honey?”

“Hmm? What?”

What now?

Brenda started to reach out to take the bags from him but then changed her mind and decided that he could roam free, but he had to carry the heavy candle and healing hands lotion. “Go,” she announced with a wave of her hand. To her own surprise, her voice held little irritation.

“What?”

“Go. Shoo. Wander.” Her fingers brushed at him. “Get out of here. You’re driving me crazy,” she lied. “I’ll call you when I’m done shopping. Make sure your phone is on.”

Now Bob was walking alone in the mall, looking at the people and thinking about stopping for a Guinness at the faux British pub near the food court. It was cold today, so most of the young women were wearing jackets or coats, and it made it blissfully easy to dismiss the haunting, firm young flesh that occupied his thoughts. Bob was glad that the weather had forced all these young sluts to cover up.

A tall red-haired woman wearing a tight minidress came breezing out of one of those lingerie stores. She was not wearing a coat, and her body and hair bounced as she sashayed, moving toward Bob. As she got closer, he saw deep gashes on her face, and a red line shimmering across her neck, releasing blood down her plunging neckline. The skin and muscles along her left cheek peeled down and plopped wetly to the floor.

Bob stopped and closed his eyes, breathing slowly and calmly. He smelled the rush of blood as the woman’s high heels clicked louder and louder toward him, beside him, and then the noise trailed away, fading into the crowd.

He opened his eyes slowly, still facing the store the red-haired woman had come from. Bob saw a plump brunette woman whose breasts had been sliced off standing in the window. She was holding up a black and pink lace brassiere in one hand, and a skimpy orange one in the other hand, comparing the two. Her blood stained the front of her shirt, dripping between her feet as she considered the price tags.

Bob’s throat tightened. He turned slowly away and resumed walking. He was careful not to step in the bloody footprints left by the red-haired harlot.

A few minutes later, Bob felt normal again. He was in control. Again.

Bob continued to window shop without any real destination. He dismissed the cigar shop, blew past the cell phone kiosk and the puppies, and he did not even notice the model train store. He slowed as he approached a shop with electric razors in the window display. Thinking about his old Remington electric, he went in to see if they sold blades for his old model.

The store was filled with red velvet display cases glimmering full of silvered blades. Razors, scissors, and electric shavers were prominent as well, but the vertical display cases with the hundreds of exquisite knives captured his imagination. Along with half a dozen other men, Bob walked along the displays, admiring the seemingly endless assortment of stainless steel. There were entire cases of straight-bladed hunting and fishing knives, military fighting knives, diver’s knives, and replica daggers. As he ogled the fine craftsmanship, he came upon the folding knives. His pulse quickened slightly when he saw an assortment of small, razor-sharp knives with unusual blades. Some were partially serrated, and others were so straight that light sang across the edges as he moved by. The blades were small and extremely thin, even when folded up. Most of the men were window shopping the larger knives, but Bob was transfixed at this case of small, efficient blades that folded into your pocket.

Hello there!

It was nestled in red velvet beside a knife touted as a special police design. The blade was less than three inches long, and it was serrated almost all the way to the tip. It hooked at the end like a talon. The special description indicated that it was designed for use by sailors to cut rope at arm’s length, and the beak-like tip provided leverage on moving targets. The blade had a small hole where you were meant to place your thumb knuckle so the blade could be opened one-handed. The knife was named the Harpy.

Well, well.

Suddenly sweating and short of breath, Bob gladly paid one hundred twenty dollars and quietly returned to the traffic of the mall.

He was entirely too old to be in this bar, and he knew it. The wife and kids were out of town visiting family, and he was stuck working the weekend.

Hope Sonya isn’t driving Brenda crazy.

The majority of the clientele was from the college down the road. He knew the place well by now and knew that he could charm young college women with his quiet confidence and willingness to buy them drinks without asking the waitress how much they cost. Bob would sit and pretend to listen to them as their blood dripped off their pretty, mutilated faces onto the little umbrellas that sat in their fruity drinks.

It was crowded tonight, and Bob was at the bar, holding his overcoat in his lap because there was no safe place to drape a coat. It occurred to him that there were no less than a dozen guys his age sitting at tables by themselves, leering at the young girls.

Losers.

He fidgeted with the buttons on the overcoat and noted that Brenda had tightened up the loose button.

Wow, that was nice of her.

After a while, a woman sat next to Bob. She was almost his age, also too old for this place, with overdone blonde hair and a tight red dress that exposed a lot of hanging cleavage. Her skin was weathered, showing years spent in the sun. She ordered a drink and did not immediately pay for it. As she raised the glass, she cast a sidelong, dirty glance at Bob, then she drained the gin and tonic.

Bob motioned the bartender to bring her another one.

Roxanne was the name she gave, and she was not as loud as the younger girls. Her voice was husky, and she smoked. Bob hated cigarettes and women who smoked them. In fact, he didn’t like her at all. She sat there in the tight red dress, with her rough tanned skin, long legs, and her slightly overdone eye makeup looking at him like she was interested. She smelled of sickly sweet perfume and cigarette smoke. Bob did not have to look away, or close his eyes, or suppress any urges from under his folded overcoat as long as he focused on her.

They talked for a time, and Bob gave her his attention without listening. He did not allow himself to be distracted by the firm and blood-soaked bodies of the sorority girls on the dance floor. After her third drink, she leaned in close to make sure he heard her. “Honey, don’t take this personally, but you should know that I have bills to pay. We can take this party somewhere private, but it will cost you. I hope that doesn’t spoil the mood.”

A distant feeling of familiarity threatened Bob’s composure, but he remained calm. He ignored the blood that was now slowly dripping from the gash where Roxanne’s nose should be, and gazing into her mutilated eye sockets said, “No, not at all. In fact, I think you just said the magic words, Love.”

Standing in the bathroom, Bob washed the blood from his hands. The small apartment stank of stale smoke and fried foods. There was a litter box in the kitchen that stank, too. He dabbed at the sleeves of the overcoat, but there did not seem to be any blood on the wool. In fact, looking in the mirror, he was remarkably clean considering the past hour’s activities. He was certain that some blood had sprayed across the sleeve, but looking at it now, it was dry and soft with no trace of blood. He finished washing off the knife, grateful for the ingenious design that prevented it from holding water in any crevices.

He walked through Desiree’s bedroom one last time and saw her lying peacefully on the bed. Her hair was rumpled across the pillow. Her breasts and an ovary were arranged on her bedside table, beside most of the tissue from her face. Someone had already gotten to the other ovary years before Bob met her, it seemed. Her legs were splayed open, and the soles of her feet were pressed together, near her buttocks. He had taken his time, and treated the dirty whore with the care she deserved. He hated rushing.

He felt a vibration near his right hip. He reached down and noted with surprise that his cell phone was somewhere in his overcoat. Fumbling with a strange pocket he wasn’t sure he’d noticed before, he pulled it out. He was on full alert, as if Brenda might somehow know where he was through the phone. His voice was artificially cheerful, “Hey Sweetie. No, you didn’t disturb me; I’m on my way home right now. No, it’s okay, I’m just wrapping up here at work. You aren’t bothering me at all.”

Bob walked outside, talking quietly. “Say, did you sew a pocket into my overcoat? You did? That’s the sweetest thing, thank you. You’re becoming a regular little seamstress. Be home in a flash. Love you. Bye-bye.”

The kids rushed out the door to catch their various school buses. Bob was surprised to see Brenda come back in the house. She would usually hurry over to the school and sit there out of view, waiting to make sure David got inside safely before driving to work. She denied doing it, but Bob knew better. Bob did not discourage her paranoia. After all, there were a lot of sickos in the world.

But this morning, she was still there after the kids were gone. Bob noted that she was bringing a small armful of dry cleaning in from the minivan.

He drank coffee and read the local paper. There was a short article on the front page about another hooker who had been found murdered downtown. A redhead. She’d been dead a couple of days. No other details were released. Bob turned to the sports section.

“Honey?”

“Yes, Dear?” Bob set his paper aside and looked at his wife. Her brown hair was pulled back and she was wearing one of the dark blue and black dress suits that she wore when she was trying to hide her weight. She held her overcoat across her arm, stroking it absently as if she were on her way out the door. Her freckles were obvious this morning, despite the fact that she had actually used a little makeup today to cover them. Bob recalled her saying something about her boss having a presentation that she was helping with.

I’ll have to call and offer encouragement later this morning.

“Are we… are we okay?” she asked.

“What do you mean? Of course we’re okay.” Bob was genuinely confused. “What do you mean?”

There was a long pause as Brenda looked around, “It’s just that… I mean… I worry that we don’t do things together anymore.”

“What do you mean, Dear?”

Where is she getting this?

“Well, you’ve been staying out late a lot and coming home smelling like you’ve been in bars. And… well… I don’t have to tell you how long it’s been since we’ve made love.” The last bit was almost mumbled, but Brenda had momentum going and didn’t want to stop, “Bob-is there another woman?” she blurted out fearfully.

“No, of course not.” Bob said almost laughingly but without a trace of mockery.

“Well, it’s just that… well… sometimes I can smell the perfume, I think.”

“Dear, there’s no other woman,” Bob said dismissively and convincingly.

She offered him a weak smile. “I hate to say anything. It’s just that you’ve been so different these past few months. I mean, you’re more thoughtful, more… and you don’t even peek at other women when we’re out anymore, which is actually kind of nice, but…”

Bob shifted a bit uncomfortably at that. He felt like a kid who finally realized that his mother always kept a count of how many cookies were in the jar.

“But at the same time, we haven’t had… sex… for almost four months.” She ran through the speech quickly, with rehearsed speed, and kept going. “Cosmo says that these are signs that a husband is cheating.”

Smiling a bit, Bob repeated, “Dear, I haven’t had any kind of sex with any woman but you since we started dating. I’m sorry if I ever looked at another woman. The sight of most other women makes me ill compared to you, Dear, and I am grateful that your face is the one I wake up to in the mornings.” Bob’s words rang with surprising sincerity.

Relieved, but a bit unprepared, Brenda pressed an issue. “Where have you been going at night?”

Chuckling, Bob said, “I’ve been hanging out in bars and patrolling street corners finding hookers and eviscerating them for my sick pleasure, Dear.” Bob’s heart almost stopped.

Where the hell did that come from?!

Brenda chastised him, “Bob! That’s tasteless to laugh about those poor murdered women like that. Shame on you! I don’t care that they were prostitutes, they were still people.”

“I’m sorry, Dear, I didn’t mean to upset you.”

What in god’s name did I say that for?

“I love you just how you are, Brenda, and I like us the way we are. I’m not cheating on you.”

I told her… about the hookers. I can’t just let her walk out of here now.

“Don’t read too much into my behavior, Brenda. Midlife crisis, maybe.”

Now I have to keep her quiet!

Bob felt the tremor of fear grow into a knot.

Brenda smiled sweetly and came close. He could smell the fresh, clean scent of the morning shower and fabric softener. She was incredibly plain, and Bob felt absolutely no desire to have sex with her. He inhaled the scents again and remembered all the anger and hatred he had felt for her all these years. He summoned up the apathy and rage, building to a sharp, razor’s edge as he looked into her eyes.

He saw her freckles, her concerned brow. He had nothing. No blood, no stench, no rage, no visions… nothing compelling him to silence her. Just fear. If he had to kill her, he had to do it alone. He did not have the knife or his treasured coat.

He averted his eyes in wilted defeat.

“I’m glad we talked, Bob. And I’m glad you were honest with me. Couples should be honest with each other.” The tone of her voice had changed, and when he looked back up to her, he noticed that the coat she was holding over her arm and stroking lovingly was his. She bent down and gently kissed his head, holding her hand on his shoulder. “Be sure that it stays that way.”

She handed him the coat and then reached into her pocket and extracted something that flashed silver in the kitchen lights. She placed his knife on the table in front of him. Bob’s heart jumped into his throat, and his breath froze.

“Bob-don’t be out too late tonight.”