Dressed in a black suit and tie, Peter sat at the head of the table. “I’m glad you could make it to dinner.” He picked up a wine glass and gazed to his right. Except for a place setting, no one was there. “A salute to my beautiful wife, Paula.”
In a high-pitched voice, ‘Why are we here?’
He cocked his head and lowered his tone. “But, darling, you know why.”
His eyes shifted to his left. “John, tell Paula why.” A brief silence. “What? Cat got your tongue?”
Peter turned right and reached over the table. “Oh, my goodness. You’ve got something on your lip.” He pretended to flick at her mouth. “There, that’s better.”
His gaze shifted left. ‘Don’t just sit there. John, speak up.’
The doorbell rang.
Peter waved a motion to stay, got up from his chair, and left the room.
A few minutes later.
“Just the neighbor. The one who waters her lawn at night.” He returned to his seat at the table.
Soon, the clicking sound of a green container rolled up the driveway. Be careful. Mrs. Rocha doesn’t miss a thing.
“Paula, shame on you. You forgot to bring in the trash can.” Then, in a disappointed tone, “But of course, you were too busy.”
He turned left. “What about you?” Peter asked. “Yes, I forgot, you were fucking my wife.”
Shifting right and in a shrill tone, ‘You’re crazy.’
“Didn’t think so when you married me.” He smirked. “I have a surprise for you.”
‘You shouldn’t have,’ came the same shrill voice.
“But I couldn’t let the evening pass without it. Follow me.”
He glanced left. “You too, John.”
Peter climbed the staircase toward the bedroom. He opened the door.
On top of the bed lay the bloodied bodies of Paula and John.
Peter picked up the phone off the nightstand. “I’d like to report a double murder.” Then, he pulled a gun from his jacket pocket and shot himself in the head.