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Joe

I watch my wife eat her cereal and think about the first girl I killed.

She ate cereal in a very different manner, setting down her spoon in between bites and waiting as she chewed, her jaw moving in a lazy and circular fashion as she ground the sugary flakes into mush, then swallowing and pausing a beat, as if to see if it would stay down.

Then she’d pick up the spoon and start the process again.

My wife shovels a new bite in while the first is mid-chew.

She hunches over the bowl, her gaze pinned to my face as she listens to me talk.

The Cheerios are an afterthought, her spoon passing between the bowl and her full lips without pause.

Chew, slurp, brush a tendril of hair out of her face, plunge the spoon into the bowl, lick her lips, open, and gulp another spoonful.

It’s a masterful coordination, made more beautiful because she is oblivious that it is happening.

All her attention is glued on me, and I know that just as I am noticing every detail, so is she.

She focuses on the press of my lips together when I pause, the raise of my brows when I ask a question, the moment I reach up and straighten the knot of my tie.

The first dead girl, she didn’t listen to me.

She didn’t notice anything. She was too focused on herself, on her clothing, her goals, her music, her money, her grades.

Her mind was running a race just to keep up with herself.

When I killed her, she was probably thinking of the funeral and reaction more than the pain.

What would they bury her in?

Who would cry?

What would the obituary say?

They never found her body, so the burial outfit never mattered. There was also no obituary, but to her credit, there were a lot of tears shed.

If I ever kill my wife, I’ll make sure they find her body.

She deserves that.

She deserves everything.