The day she decided to kill her husband was a Friday.
If anyone ever had the notion to write her story, that was maybe the moment to begin with.
But her tale consisted mostly of what had happened long before and what happened afterward. It consisted of things she did to herself and things she did to other people, a tale of blood and chaos, but also of words and thoughts.
“I will always love you. I will never leave you.”
Words you say, that’s all.
“I will cleave unto you and only you until death do us part.”
Words you say, that’s all.
I could kill that asshole.
Thoughts a woman has, that’s all.
Or?
She decided to kill her husband on a Friday, but it took a while before her decision could be carried out. And that’s not actually what the story was about.
It was about all the other stuff.