He'd have to go, she thought. She couldn't stand the sight, smell, or sound of him any longer. +
18 years ago, a common love for Agatha Christie brought them together at a pavement book shop. Animated discussions about their favourite Poirot mysteries fuelled a whirlwind romance that ended in an impulsive marriage. +
He then gradually crushed her life to fit into 634 square feet of utter frustration. And when he started working from home, it felt more like 240, give or take the balcony. +
His working from home took away the few bright spots she used to have. Reading detective fiction, calling her sister, buying silly things online, doing her nails, and thinking of names for her blog. These days, it felt like he was perched on her shoulder, round the clock. +
The paranoid bastard wouldn't leave the house. Even to pick the newspaper from the doormat. They didn't have kids, so there wasn't that distraction either. +
Everything he did grated on her nerves. His humming, his giggling, his slurping, his calling her 'my dear'. Books left damply in the bathroom. Uncleared plates in the sink. Clumsily refolded newspapers. +
She should have divorced him when she had the chance. After the massive blow out over his Insta DMs with the Russian woman with an obviously fake profile picture. But then her father had a stroke. And the slimeball transformed into a model son in law. +
Then came her mental health issues. She didn't even know the names of the conditions she was going through. All she knew was that she didn't have the energy to hold on to any plan for more than a day or two. And divorce needed a lot of planning. The very thought was exhausting. +
She saw the mess he'd left on the table after breakfast. Why couldn't he even pop his medicines like an adult? At least take the damn pills out from the strips in sequence. What idiot removes them randomly? And he had so many bloody meds. +
She swept all the pills into the big medicine box. She couldn't care to sort them out. She realised with a sudden clarity why the man was so paranoid about Covid. He wouldn't survive the confounded thing. His middle name was comorbidity. +
With the same stunning clarity she figured how she'd get him out of his life. The risk involved was somewhere between 2 and 4 percent. She decided to take a chance with those odds. +
It took her only a week of wanton recklessness to test positive. He took a few days more. She was lucky to only have mild symptoms. He, predictably, was a trainwreck. He went downhill and fast. +
When the ambulance came to take him to the ICU, he whispered into her ear, 'I don't think even Poirot could have solved this one. And it can never be proved. You've pulled off the perfect murder... my dear.'
ANTHE.
ANTHE.
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