The Wife

Untitled Part 1

He was sleeping on the floor; a short nap on a blanket. He woke up to the cry of a faucet being turned and the sound of the last drops hitting the floor of the shower. The steam flowing through the narrow open slit of the bathroom door invited him.

She was stepping out of the shower as he walked into the bathroom.  He grabbed the old, rough towel she liked, and softly dried her back. She inhaled through her nose. A smile reshaped her face. He saw the droplets of water on her skin and kissed her right shoulder refreshing his mouth with the cool drops. The smell of her washed hair was intoxicating.

The sounds of the street market below, sneaked through the partially opened bathroom window. Thousands of people hurriedly walked back and forth. A hint of spices being sold down below rose to the window and travelled through the foggy air of the bathroom. The aroma cast a veil over the sickening smell of the butchery across the street.

His kisses went up her neck, this electrified her. She turned to face him and kissed him as she pressed her chest on his. Nothing would break the appointment of their bodies. Nothing could slip between his skin and hers. They were alone, among thousands; hidden, safe. The love they had made earlier was not enough. Their bodies asked for more.

They devoured each other in the bathroom. They kissed every inch of skin. They explored every curve, and corner, and cavity. They tasted each other. They exhausted their energy and spent every drop of love on one another. Then they crawled back to the blanket on the floor. She hated the bed, he knew it.

The morning was tired and getting ready for noon. They had time for one last nap. They fell asleep as one, tight. The day grew older and noon became afternoon.

She was slowly awakened by a feeling of nausea and opened her eyes, confused by the intense light of a low sun coming through the window. The smell of animal flesh and blood filled the warm air of the bedroom. The butcher was hovering over her, on his knees. The blank expression in his eyes was terrifying; he looked at her the same way he would look at the carcass of a lamb. She knew this look, she knew what was coming.

The butcher raised his right arm, and the edge of his long steak knife shone bright orange as the sunset started to bleed. His arm came down heavily, mechanically, again and again. Thirty four times the blade sunk into the flesh of the two bodies exhausted by love.

The pool of blood on the floor was a single one, a single color. The butcher looked at his wife and her lover for a long time, his eyes cold. The deep red of the lovers' blood stained the fibers of the butcher's apron. Pork, and beef, and lamb, and lovers.