Blindly

18:30.

The freshly born clouds gathered and became extensions of the pale gray buildings, promising a white evening.

I was observing the building and forging my plan.

Entering the apartment on the fifth floor through the window was impossible. I had to wait for him to come out and do it the usual way.

I waited.

18:33.

In a patch of street light, three women were obsessing over a baby that resembled a de-feathered chicken rather than a human being.

What is all the adoration about? Small limbs and big eyes trigger a neurobiological response in humans. A hormone is released to keep them from eating the babies.

I rolled my eyes at the human race and continued waiting.

18:56.

There he is, finally out!

He got on his bike and rode off to the gym.

I decided to wait for another 10 minutes.

If he doesn't come back within that timeframe, then he hasn't forgotten anything and I have an hour to act.

I shivered.

An old man was slowly crawling towards the block, his body bent in the shape of the letter 'r' with a tendency towards the letter 'n'.

Shortly after him, a woman dressed in black entered with a slow, but confident gait.

At 19:07, I shuffled in, too.

I'm going to surprise my husband!

Six weeks on a business trip in Georgia. I was supposed to stay for two more, but I just couldn't take it. Besides, he was pretty mad at me for leaving.

I'm going to cook and meet him in my underwear - like a woman should.

I ran up the stairs, taking two steps at a time.

Fifth floor.

Key.

Lock.

The key turned. But only halfway.

Why isn’t the door locked?! This one won't learn that it must ALWAYS be locked, even if there is a door knob on the outside instead of a handle!!!

A wave of rage rushed through my body. What a fucking...

OK, enough. Get a grip!!!

I was determined to make things right.

I had to. The ball was in my court.

After finishing my inner monologue, I went into the kitchen.

I piled the groceries on the wooden counter, opened a bottle of Pinot Noir, and poured two glasses. Took off my clothes and set about spreading organic chestnut & mushroom pâté, smelling like stale jam and milk, on slices of rye bread.

Things you do to get love...

Suddenly, the bedroom door opened.

My brain automatically flipped through the possible scenarios at the speed of light. But my body's reaction was slower. It seemed like it wasn't until five seconds later that it remembered to jump and shake.

A blonde woman with thin eyebrows and an even thinner nightgown chirped: What did you forget, Sugar?

Our eyes met and a slice of chestnut pâté dropped on the kitchen floor.

Is that MY nightgown?!

Yes, it is!!!

This, this... Sugar... Bowl... is wearing MY nightgown!!!

My jaw and saliva succumbed to gravity.

I froze and started burning furiously.

In a minute, the résumé was complete: A colleague. A mistress. For months.

That piece of shit!

I'm going to pluck out his eyelashes and nose hairs with tweezers.

I'm going to wax him.

I'll peel off his skin.

I'll rip out his fingernails and his heart and make him eat them.

Oh, wait, he doesn't have a heart.

His left kidney.

I'm going to chop him into pieces.

Then I'm going to hang him.

Then I'll dissolve his body in the bathtub.

Oh, wait, we don't have a bathtub.

In a basin.

Then I'm going to shoot him.

Finally, I'm going to shit in his face.

And finally, I will divorce him and order him to pay alimony to my future children and grandchildren until he dies.

Yeah.

Before I knew it, I threw the bottle of Pinot Noir at the Sugar Bowl. It hit the wall.

A glass followed.

She tried to make a beeline for the hallway, but I cornered her and prepared to shove a piece of bread in her mouth.

I came. I saw. I killed.

Suddenly, she screamed: Stop! I'm pregnant, don't!

A second slice of bread with chestnut pâté landed on the kitchen floor. 100 grams cost 8.99 leva!

So, he doesn't want to have children with me but with her?!!!

I came. I saw. I got killed.

I stepped back and whispered: Five minutes. You take all your stuff and his stuff and GO. All of it.

Staring at the jar of pâté, I began memorizing the list of emulsifiers. After a century, the Sugar Bowl left, wearing her tasteless black clothes and dragging a 100-gallon garbage bag with the Blue Angel logo.

My skin grew heavy. The fingers beneath it seemed to be playing madly on an invisible piano.

I could smell my stress(ed) sweat.

The muscles in my legs had atrophied. Nevertheless, they slowly and steadily carried me to the neighboring building, where a sign read: Suffering from an injury? Don’t be a victim! We can help you! The window behind it was covered in red tape with the advertisement: Life is short. Get a divorce.

I remembered the lawyer's famous line: I used to be a procurer, now I'm a procurator.

I remembered the stories of his ridiculous lawsuits. The people he represented, from single mothers to con artists. Just because you did it, doesn’t mean you’re guilty!

And suddenly, I remembered something else.

It was one of those moments when, even though you have been working hard to suppress your intuition, it finds its way to the surface and slaps you in the face.

I ran back home. There, in the middle of the kitchen, was the meat suit called husband, staring into the abyss.

Drowning in doubt and rage, I injected my venom into it.

And it slowly whispered, with sincere confusion in its voice and eyes:

I t-told you, th-there are n-no wo-women in my t-team at w-work!

Wh-where are th-the do-cu-ments a-and the mo-ney from th-the be-e-droom? T-The lap-t-top???