Killer Marriage
Part Four: Served

A Short Story by Doug Dean
Written using the suggestion "Lilac"
Originally featured on 07-11-2007
As part of our series "Breakfast Serial"

“Welcome home, baby.”

She’s just standing there in my favorite bra and panties. Her half naked body in front of the painting of the lilac tree on the wall.

I don’t have my gun so I reach for whatever’s closest. A vase. I shatter it against the wall behind her. A warning shot.

“You set me up, you bitch!”

She’s five feet from me. I could run over and choke her. But I can’t. I can’t do it.

“Where’s that worm Lukas!” I’m growling. My fists are clenched and shaking.

What’s scary is that she doesn’t look afraid. She hardly flinched when the vase sailed over her shoulder. She looks like she’s about to grin. There it is. She’s grinning.

“Where is he? I’m gonna take care of him first.”

“He’s gone, baby.” What!? That sounds like bullshit. He must be lurking somewhere. Snake. Trying to get the jump on me before he gets the jump on my wife.

I step through the living room. My boots don’t make a sound on the periwinkle carpets. I poke my head through the kitchen door keeping one eye on her. She doesn’t move. Just stands there.

The back door is open. The kitchen is empty. A breeze blows throw her shoelace wind chimes.

I edge back through the living room.

“Is he upstairs?” I’m catching my breath. I run up the stairs to the bedroom. The door frame splinters when I kick it. I’m in the room and it’s quiet. I run across the hall. Check the bathroom. Empty. Check the kid’s room. Empty. I hear giggling downstairs.

I make it halfway down them and turn to see her standing in the same spot before my heel slips and I tumble down the rest.

Now she’s laughing. Maybe I can kill her.

I spring up and ignore the aching in the back of my head.

“You alright, honey?” She is holding in the laughter now. She takes a step towards me. “Come on. You want some ice?”

I point my finger.

“Stay right there.” My head’s throbbing and my mind is spinning. Hungry too. I smelled something good cooking in the kitchen. Maybe she learned to cook for him.

“Samantha. You have one minute to tell me where that son of a bitch Lukas is.”

“He’s gone, sweetie. Go look outside. His cars gone. He’s gone. You sure you don’t want ice. That spill looked like it hurt.”

I step to the window. My head throbs more when I notice she’s right. The throbbing feels familiar. I turn back to her.

“He just got here five minutes ago.”

“I told him to come through the house. I knew it would get you out of the silly tree.” Another giggle. She walks to the kitchen. I don’t stop her.

I hear the crackling of the ice maker. I reach for the metal ash tray. I thought there’d be more weapons in here.

She comes back out holding a paper towel full of ice. She sees the ashtray and smirks. She walks across living room and holds out the ice pack.

“Wait. You knew I was up there.” She knew I was in the tree.

“Yeah, you fell three times trying to climb up there. And you broke the Jones’ fence. You’re not terribly stealthy are you? It’s a wonder that Sherman didn’t kill you.”

I don’t think. I just grit my teeth and swing. I need to get on top of this situation.

I feel the grab on my wrist, the kick to my knee and my back crashing through the glass coffee table at the same time. Then I see her standing over me.

“We need to talk honey.”

I still have the ashtray. I throw it. I miss. She smirks. I feel pieces of cold glass in my ear.

She holds out her hand to help me up. Silly I’ll just pull her…her heel knocks the wind out of my chest. I can’t breath.

She’s shaking her head.

“How did you get the best of old Sherman anyway?”

“I shot him in the head.”

“Oh. Well good thing you didn’t try to fight him.”

I hate it when she’s smug. She just kicked my ass. How’d she do that? Well fuck it. I’m not through. I lunge up. Her whole knee seems to fit in my temple. I feel the back of my head hit glass. But only for a second.




Back of my neck is tight and I’m looking at my lap. Something smells good. My eyes are crusty. I push my chin a little further into my chest and see what’s tying me to this chair. Electrical cord. It’s the electrical cord from my flat screen TV — my mom’s wedding present to us. I can see the frayed part where she ripped it out.

I raise my head and open and shut my eyes a few times. There she is. Still wearing bra and panties, but she’s got an apron on. Her back’s to me.

She bends to open the stove, thighs and ass to me. Steam and smoke rises up out of the oven, clouding around her. I hate to say it, but she looks delicious.

The oven slams shut and she turns.

“You’re up, baby.” I struggle with the cords. My feet are tied too.

“Enough already. Tell me what the fuck this is, Samantha.” She grins at me.

“Dinner. Roast Beef. Smells good, doesn’t it?” Yes. I’m starving and it smells so good.

“You’re a sadistic bitch. You know how hungry I get!” More giggling.

“But I’m making you dinner, sweetie.” This is a strange day. I woke up wanting to kill my wife, and now she’s making me dinner. Well, that’s not strange. That’s actually normal. But the fact that she is cooking something that I actually want to eat — I wouldn’t have believed that if somebody had told me.

A timer dings.

“Oh good, it’s ready,” she says. She bends. The oven door creaks as it opens.

The room fills with smoke and the smell of flesh. Rump Roast.

She pulls out the broiling pan. She pulls out the butcher knife and smiles over her shoulder.

“You gonna carve me up?” She carves a piece off of meat. I watch her walk towards me. Juice drips from the meat dangling between her two fingers. My eyes are following the meat. Goddamnit, where’s the knife.

She’s on my lap. Leaning on my chest. The beef strip hanging inches from my mouth. Oh fuck. I feel the juice dripping on my chest. My mouth waters. She leans in and kisses my cheek. A wet kiss with some tongue. She can probably feel that I’m hard as stale bagels. Knows she’s got me. The beef, the underwear — and she is holding a butcher knife.

She puts the beef up to my mouth and I bite. So juicy. So much flavor. Another wet kiss on my cheek. I chew. My whole mouth is flavor. She grinds on me a little.

My wife is tricky bitch indeed.

She gets up as I swallow, walking back to the roast. She starts carving. Oh, I hope she cuts it…yes, that’s a slice.

Back on my lap, I open my mouth. She dangles the piece and I feel the blade against my throat. My Adam’s apple grazes it when I swallow. I shouldn’t move. She’s in control. I turn my head towards her and the she presses the blade more. Touching my throat now.

“We need to talk,” she says. I nod with my eyes.

“I’m a killer,” she says. “Have been since you met me, honey.” I’m resisting the urge to interrupt. Just keep nodding.

“And I’m not going to stop. But sweetie, before you say anything, I’m rich.” Yeah that’s a load. Then why’d she insist on me working that office job?

“I needed you to work because it looks good. But really all the money I inherited from my aunts, I earned by killing.” Those fucking aunts and their money. Ah, give me that piece of beef. Can’t focus with it hanging there in the corner of my eye. She sees me look at it.

“Not yet, honey.” And then she smiles. “There’s more.”

My eyes are jumping back and forth from the meat to her. I can taste it from smell. She smiles before she speaks. Blade is pressed against my throat.

“You need to listen real well.” Pressed harder. I wonder if she’s cutting the skin while I watch the dangling meat. Look at her, idiot — or she’ll do it. I look into those eyes.

“So baby, I’m going to keep doing what I’ve been doing. Hits — killing for money. And it would be so much better if you came back and took care of your son and me while I did it. But if you don’t-“

She grinds on my lap for a moment. Week old bagels. Keep making eye contact. She leans in close to whisper.

“-if you don’t then I’ll cut you up and feed you to the next guy.”

Suddenly I can’t tell if her tongue is in my mouth or mine in hers. I stop wondering about the roast. She cuts the television wire and my hands are everywhere. It’s like how I used to imagine not eating for a week and then diving onto a table of food—a feeding frenzy. I get lost in tensing my fingers, teeth, mouth, shoulders, and the soundtrack of the creaking chair.




I don’t know how long we fucked. But we’re on the other side of the kitchen near the fridge. The floor is cold on my butt and I can smell the meat getting cold.

Her head is on my chest. She’s looking into my eyes. I’m thinking about what would go good with the meat. Maybe she made sides. I wink at her. She kisses my chest. And I know what needs to be done.

I kiss her on the forehead as I get up. I walk over to the roast and pick up the knife.

Before I cut, I think. I think about the day job, the cookie cutter house, the asshole in-laws, our son. I think about turning and plunging the knife into her lying chest. She’d kill me. I know that now. She’s tricky and a better fighter. She’d do some assassin move and then kill me and she really would feed me to the next guy. I know my wife. She would.

I could run but she’d find me.

I slice off a piece and sit down next to her on the floor. I hold it out and she takes a bite before leaning back on my chest. I take a bite.

She can cook. I take another bite. So juicy.

She can cook.

Read More By Doug Dean

COPYRIGHT 2006-2011
Portland Fiction Project

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