A tale of the Ultimate Good Wife.
“I don’t like the way you’re holding that knife.”
My grip loosens around the plastic handle but I don’t put it down. “Yeah, well I don’t like the way you bringing your hobbies home with you,” I spit back.
He sways a bit, like he’s been drinking. His eyes bloodshot. Wild. Dilated.
He’s coming at me. Licking his lips like he wants to do things to me.
He actually smiles. Like this is OK. Like this is normal.
Because I’m a good wife I let him reach out. Because I’m a good wife I let him pull me close. Because I’m a good wife I let him put his wet lips on my neck. Because I’m I a good wife I let his hands fondle my breasts.
But then he goes and gets blood all over my goddamn dress.
I drop the knife. Push him away. Rush to the sink. I turn to him. “How do you get blood out of silk?”
He gives me this smile like he couldn’t care less. Watches me with lust as I frantically step out of the dress. He comes at me again. Turns me so my ass is pressed against him. He runs his fingers across my stomach. Covering me in blood. Her blood.
It’s his fantasy. This is the only way he’ll take me. Bent over a flat surface covered in another woman’s blood. Another conquest’s blood. The Ultimate. The pinnacle of making love, he calls it. His fantasy. His fetish—not mine. But because I’m a good wife, I let him.
I push against him, making him back up. Pick my dress up off the floor. I go through an encyclopedia of Wiki-Hows in my head. Stop up the empty sink and throw in my dress. He grabs me again as I fill the sink with water. Squeeze in some dish detergent. Pray for the stains to dissipate.
It’s not going to come out—the blood. But I have to try. It’s my favorite dress. White. A-line. Knee-length. And now covered in blood. I wonder if I’ll get to wear it again. I wonder after the detergent bath will it still float around my knees.
I wonder these things as he unhooks my bra. Makes me step out of my panties. They’re not silk but he throws them in the sink. I close my eyes to the pink bubbly mess. Somewhere to my left a ding goes off on the Crockpot. I’d almost forgotten about the pot roast.
Dinner is ready.
Because I’m a good wife I let my husband do what he wants. He unzips his jeans. As he thrusts into me I wonder if I soak the dress for longer than one night will the bloodstains come outcompletely?
It’s over quickly. In times like these, wild with bloodlust, he never lasts long. He pushes away from me. I hear him collapse in a dining chair. Covering everything in goddamned blood.
I open my eyes. Shut off the faucet. Turn around to face my spent husband.
I gesture to the dead redhead on our kitchen floor.
“What are we going to do with the body?”