She wanted him to have amnesia. She gathered items to crack his head -- she did not want to kill him -- she just wanted thoughts to leave him. Thoughts of what she had done. She wanted him to forget so that they could get on with living. Happily.
She gathered items and lined them up on the kitchen counter. Items to knock. Conk. Smack. An old metal alarm clock. A can of hearty beef soup. A bottle of Beaujolais. A lantern. A wok. A tea kettle. A tackle box.
She thought about the weight of things. She thought about how a person can slip.
She gathered wet leaves from the yard and sprinkled them in clumps along the front walkway, splattered motor oil, tossed bird seed and marbles too. She drizzled Italian salad dressing on the front steps.
Then she sat down in their kitchen to wait.
He did not come home.
She waited and watched the alarm clock on the counter and then she set it for fifteen minutes and when it rang she took the wine bottle and opened it. She set the alarm again and in an hour she opened and heated the soup.
He did not come home. She was left with the thoughts.
In the morning she opened the front door and peered out at the mess she had made: fluid, seed, debris. She would make a dash; she would fall. She had slipped before. She could do it again.