This is actually an old piece of fiction, but I kind of like it. So I present it for your perusal.

She set the orange on the cutting board and brought the sharp edge of the knife to its peel.

Behind her, her husband rustled the newspaper as he turned a page. Brenda supposed he would reach the Classifieds eventually. She imagined that he would blush infinitesimally as he read a coded message from a woman with a pseudonym, and then he would shift in his seat. He had seen that woman and knew her name, knew her personally, knew her intimately. Brenda was sure of it. She scoured the Classifieds after he left for work, and plenty of personals qualified.

There would be some declaration of love and an insult about the clueless wife. As though Brenda didn’t know what John really meant when he said he was overworked and underpaid, how he needed to work overtime to finish projects and help support their little family. Brenda had seen Christina with her own two eyes – Christina, with those trim scissor legs under her pencil skirt and the saucy satin camisole she wore under her sharp jackets. She saw how personable John and his secretary – oh, sorry, assistant – were. A little too personable to be professional, in Brenda’s opinion.

She couldn’t believe John could turn his back on everything she had generously done for him – married him, kept his house, bore his children – just for some bitch who happened to converse in three-syllable words, type at 120 words per minute, and showed a little cleavage.

John closed his newspaper and excused himself politely, but Brenda knew what he was really going to do in the bathroom before he shaved.

She crushed the sliced orange onto the juicer and watched the sour liquid pool down. These were the times when homicide seemed justified.

This story is the property of A. Christine, 2013
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