2:02 pm, Tuesday.
She laid there in a pool of red.
1:45 pm, Tuesday.
The doorbell rings. She slips out of the bed and opens the door. He takes a step in, the door is kicked shut. His lips capture hers. Her hands are on him. She tastes the alcohol on her tongue, and shivers.
His shirt goes first. Her skirt goes next. They, a tangle of limbs and passion, move to her bedroom.
1:50 pm, Tuesday.
Only her red panties remains. His favourite. Only his shirt is discarded.
“Kneel” he commands.
She obeys.
He walks behind her, opens his belt. He raises the belt.
“Count.” he barks.
1:55 pm, Tuesday.
“Fifteen” She gasps. It took her a year to build such endurance. Blow by blow. Night by night.
She had asked him one night, on a night just like this night.
“Why do you do it?”
“Because I love you, just like my father loved my mother.” He pauses, smiles and then says, “Besides, red looks good on you.” Kissing her forehead, he turns his back on her and goes to sleep. She had laid there that night and gazed at his back. Dusky and hairy. She wondered how red would look on him.
2:00 am, Tuesday.
That is what she wonders now looking at his back as he opens his pants. To fuck her like he does every night.
He bends.
She looks to her right.
She picks it up, the knife.
He stands.
She strikes.
He gasps and cries
She digs it deep, turning it.
He goes down on his knees.
She smiles, finally. He is how she wants him.
“Red looks good on you too.”
She laughs like never before.
He he lies on the floor.
She lies down too, gazing into his eyes.
Sparkling eyes gazing into lifeless ones.
2:02 am, Tuesday
She lays there.
In a pool of red.
Her pool of anger.
His pool of love.
