The Last Deep Breath

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She turned over in bed, ran her fingers through the wet thatch of his chest hair, and said, “I want you to kill my husband.”

Grey wasn’t surprised. It seemed like every third woman he ran into wanted her husband dead.

No divorce. No let’s get him into AA or rehab. No he’s the father of my children, sweet baby Jesus he deserves a second chance. No smack him in the teeth and leave him bleeding in the gutter.

No mercy at all. These ladies played a serious game. He’d thought things in New York were pretty bad, but out here in the desert all remnants of grace and pity evaporated like a mid-morning shower. They wanted their old men dead. The ring apparently made them homicidal.

He knew he’d never get out the door without listening to the rest of it so he lit a cigarette, lay back against the pillows, and said, “Tell me your plan.”

She did. It was stupid. They were all stupid.

Sweet smell of desert sage drifted in on the hot breeze. Grey looked into her face and saw what he always saw. The seething desperation cresting in heavily shadowed eyes. A hint of dust trapped in the crows’ feet and deep frown lines. Thirty years of unanswered pleas and unresolved daddy issues. A gutted rag doll forgotten in the corner. Another delicate moaner in the sisterhood of pain.

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