The Widow

She raised the knife, watching as moonlight danced across the metal’s surface, longing to connect its cool edge with the soft warmth of his flesh. Her husband’s body was relaxed and peaceful, his shoulders rising and falling methodically beneath the down comforter, each breath even and slow. She could tell that he was sleeping too deeply to be dreaming—his legs always twitched when he first fell asleep. He was unaware of the woman who watched silently at the foot of his bed. She was dressed only in an oversized t-shirt—they had bought it on one of their ski trips to Vail—her legs skinny and pale in the darkness. The oriental rug, woven expertly with threads of lilac and dusty blue, silenced the sound of her feet as she took a step closer.

The woman’s eyes drifted from her husband’s sleeping form to the wedding photo that he had placed on the bedside table in one of the frames they had received at their reception. She couldn’t remember who had given her the frame (the day’s events were a blur), although she suspected it was made from real gold and possibly worth a small fortune. It hadn’t been there long; the dust hadn’t even had time to settle on top. Within the frame she saw herself, a young girl of twenty-five, standing next to a man who could have been her father. She was beautiful, her small frame accentuated by the fitted lace gown. Blonde curls, each meticulously crafted by the hair stylist her husband had hired, framed her large dark eyes, causing her look like one of Raphael’s cherubs. Her smile, however, was strangely tight, as though the corners of her scarlet lips were being pulled in opposite directions by strands of fishing line. Her husband, unaware of his wife’s strange smile, stood at her side, his blue eyes bright and scrunched up, the way they did when he laughed too loudly when they watched reality TV at night.

The woman’s eyes flitted back to her husband, still dead asleep in their large mahogany bed, shrouded beneath layers of the finest Egyptian linen sheets. She traced the intricate scrollwork of vines and lilies on the bedpost with her finger. She would have to time this moment just right, as to not ruin the bedding, or the antique rug, with his blood. There could be no struggle—the wood might be scratched.

Perhaps it was too soon. There would be questions, and she knew that questions often led to investigations. It had to be clean this time, there could be no mistakes, nothing to raise suspicions. Her palms began to sweat as she remembered the last time and how close she had come to losing it all.

It was simple really: she had gotten lucky. The police didn’t ask the right questions. In fact, they hardly asked any questions at all. She had put on a fresh coat of mascara and let the tears streak down her face, playing the role of the distraught wife—inconsolable in her grief, wailing and bemoaning her dead lover. They had bought the act easily, even bringing her a coffee during one of the mandatory interviews. They never questioned her story. They never questioned her timeline. They didn’t even question the bruises which were slowly yellowing from where he had attempted to wrestle her off before he let out that final cough—the one that spattered blood across the white marble floors.

A few weeks later, she held the funeral—a dull necessity—wearing a formless black dress with matronly pearls and stockings the color of ash. A few people wandered into the service periodically, though she could tell they were more interested in the strange circumstances that surrounded his untimely death than grief-stricken. She smiled sadly while they offered their condolences, content to wait while they satisfied their curiosity. After all, she needed to prove she had nothing to hide. As the newspapers forgot about him, so did the rest of the town. Most importantly, however, they forgot about her.

Regardless, the money ran out eventually. It always did.

She looked again at the knife, turning it slowly in her palm. Desire shivered its way up her spine. She longed to end the lie, to push the blade slowly into his chest and watch as his eyes opened in shock, standing by as he slipped softly into death’s soft embrace.

But it could wait. She had always been a patient woman.

She tiptoed to her end of the bed, careful not to wake her husband. She gently lifted the corner of the mattress and slid the knife underneath, where it was content to rest until the time was right. Her husband let out a sigh, and her eyes darted sharply to his body in alarm, but he was still. She closed her eyes and let out a shaky breath of her own, then slipped under the covers, wrapping her arms around her husband’s waist and pressing herself into his warm body.