Every Evening, My Husband Tipped Two Drops From a Small Dark Glass Bottle Into My Tea
The clock on the nightstand clicked past two fifteen in red digital numbers.
I sat on the edge of the mattress, listening to his slippers tap down the hallway toward the kitchen.
He believed my mind was slipping so fast that I wouldn’t notice what he was doing to my body.
Or he believed I wouldn’t survive long enough to ask questions about the deeds in the study.
By six the next evening, rain beat against the floor-to-ceiling windows of the glass kitchen.
Daniel set two porcelain saucers on the granite counter with a sharp click.
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