A Good Wife
I watch her now, from the end of her bed: her soft breathing, in and out, to the sweet
rhythm of sleep. It would almost be a pity to wake her. I watch her daily. Not like this. But
from afar. I watch how she carries in her groceries: apples, spinach leaves, avocados,
milk (a gallon a week), cereal, and tomatoes. I watch her do her laundry through the open
living room window. There are no blinds there. It opened into the kitchen. I see her fold her
socks neatly together, not rolling the tops like most people, but stacking them in pairs. The
same with her underwear, mostly cotton and boldly colored, stacked flat on the couch as
she watches television while she folds.
Once a week she does laundry, on Thursday nights. It corresponds with her
favorite shows, the only night she consistently watches television. I know she thinks
about me at those times: thinks of what it will be like when she meets me, what our lives
will be together. I can see it on her face. Through my binocular lens, her beautiful face
comes into such sharp focus; I can see her ever longing for me each night. Soon, my
love, I will be there.
Her house is outside of town—lots of forest: few neighbors. The brush within
the trees was my home in the evening. She seldom locks the dead bolt. Her house is forty
years old; it takes Mastercard. Every day I enter I find new reasons why we are meant to
be together. She reads Martha Stewart Living magazine; she will be a good wife. Our
home will be beautiful, as is the inside of her home. Nothing inside is new, but it is all
organized, well kept. Books, food, clothes—they all have their place. The house smells of
lavender. It is mostly clean, with a slight hint of dust around the ceiling fan and the vents.
We can work on that. I wait until the time is right. That time is now. In her closet I watch
her slip into her tank top. Her beautiful skin looks softer than I had imagined it. Soon I will
know how she feels.
I will take her away to a better life. The life she longs for, with me. I move closer to
her. I walk to the side of the bed, looking at her angelic form. She is perfect. I take off the
glove on my right hand, and touch her arm. Her eyes shoot open. I cover her mouth. She
looks at me with such longing, such a wish to escape this place. I will comply. I slid my
body on top of her, one hand holding her mouth, the other drawing in her warmth. She
squirms underneath me. Her desire is smoldering. I will comply. But not yet. Not now. We
need our special place; the place I made for us. I know she feels it too. I sit up, holding her
body beneath me, reach into my pocket and pull out the syringe. Shhhh. I tell her we will
be together soon.
Her eyes widened in excitement. I stick the needle gently into her arm, pressing
the tip until she is submissive. Like it should be. Yes, she is going to make a good wife.
Angela Spires received her Master’s degree in English from the University of Nevada, Reno. Her work has previously been published in The Brushfire, The Stethoscope, Wildflower Magazine, Mat Black Literary Journal, Deep South Magazine, and Burningword Literary Journal.