He was going to kill her.
Just as he had planned so many weeks ago.
It would be simple enough to do: just razzle her with a good shag, breakfast in bed, and then a drop of antifreeze to her orange juice. Just a drop.
That was the plan, classic, but he'd hesitated as she sat down at the breakfast table instead, so he made breakfast there. Talked about some irrelevant things, and she spoke about "that bitch" from accounting. It was all perfect.
She'd opened up the newspapers in search of the coms, which greatly obscured her line of sight on him.
He thanked GOD.
It was very discreet as he hovered his hand over her glass and emptied the syringe hidden in his sleeve. After all, it was just a drop.
She laughed heartily as she tried to compose herself enough to tell him the contents of the joke, he gave a chuckle of his own accord.
She wouldn't know.
The paper came down and she smiled at him.
He stared.
Confusion laced her brows but he couldn't come out of the catatonic state she put him in and so on he stared.
She laughed him off and reached forward, and the last moment he eyed the butter knife.
The table crashed to the ground onto its side splintering upon contact.
Her smile died with confusion and mild horror, but he assured her of a black widow that she now climbed the kitchen counter to get away from. For a while, he scoured through and underfoot for both his sanity and the bug. With safe distance, she offered him her morning slipper, fuzzy and blue with ugliness. He skimmed her face with husbandly reassuring words of confidence. Her facial reply was incorrigible.
The rim shattered cup was used to capture the dastardly creature, but with her mild curiosity, it became a smear before her cautious counter dismount. He frowned with exhaustion, hands having no time to rest on his hip because they guided her away from the sight and up the stairs to get dressed for a nice day out. Her head peering vainly around him.
She doesn't argue.
He found it comical the way she allowed him to befuddle her senses with pure falsehood, but nevertheless, it was nothing to undermine entirely.
The possibilities for tables are endless, five minutes into the drive and his interest has piqued irritation. Most women would babble on about clothes and shoes and jewelry, but he was not a fortunate enough man to marry someone like that. Instead, he had to retain crafting ideas that included resin with pencil shavings, or more so glittery rocks. She told him the term he was looking for was glistening, yet the sound is weird and he frowned. He presumptuously asked if she meant wet and there was a sadistic joy in the way the topic hovered to ice cream.
Their marriage isn't consummated.