I switch off my ignition and step outside. I catch front porch conversation mumblings from fellow neighbors, as well as garage doors snapping closed. I turn towards the house. The roof is T-shaped – narrow near the front, expanded in the back – and all of the shutters are purple to complement the yellow siding. The T-roof is topped with a white widow’s walk. I’ve spoken to Victoria about repainting it, but she says she never plans to use it.
The front door is still ajar. Upon entering, all I can smell is coffee. I hear the coffee pot filter and walk into the kitchen. Victoria has left her grocery bags scattered across the countertops and floor. Placed beside the coffee pot, which is now groaning as it squeezes out its last few drips, is a Styrofoam cup. I open the cabinet above and retrieve a black coffee cup with “Fuck This” written in red beneath the rim.
“Please tell,” Victoria said as she pulled out yellow tissue paper from the box. “Can you give me a hint?” Her eyes were miniature Granny Smith apples and I wanted to take a bite.
“It has to do with something you say a lot.”
We were sitting in her living room. The flames from the gas fireplace were rippling like waves.
Victoria took out the coffee cup. “Fuck this?” she read aloud the lettering. She burst out laughing and slapped her thigh, encouraging another laugh encore. “I do say that a lot.” She leaned over to kiss me. Her kiss was secondhand. “You’re adorable.”
“I know it’s nothing spectacular, but I still wanted to give you something.” I watched the flames reflect off her eyes. “I’ve been thinking about buying a new car,” I said.
Victoria placed her gift on the floor and crossed her legs. “What kind? You love your truck!”
“It’s a Ford though.”
She grabbed my hand and let her fingers tickle my palm; they moved like a dancer’s stride. “Unless you want another truck, I don’t think you need anything new. You’re a contractor.”
“I want to be more than your contractor, Victoria.”
“Clyde –”
“I mean it!” I stopped her choreography with my closing fist. “I think I could make you happy. I know I could.”
Victoria went to leave the couch but I grabbed her by the hips and she fell into my lap. “I love you –”
Thump.
I leave the coffee cup in the cupboard.
Thump.
There’s that sound again, coming from upstairs. I walk back to the entrance. The door is still open. I notice a black Dodge Charger parked in the center of the loop: a piece of string resting in the needle. There’s some slight tapping now, like footsteps. Now the tapping has turned to clicking – clicking like high heels on linoleum. Victoria must have dropped something in the bathroom. I turn away to push the front door closed. The clicking starts back up again – clicking accompanied by another thump, a drawn out thump like she’s moving furniture.
I hear a sudden exhale from behind me. I smile to myself. I probably surprised Victoria. Passing the staircase, I head to the living room. I make eye contact with the picture of Victoria. Between two balusters I make eye contact with Ben. Ben, who is kneeling down at the top of the stairs with a straight razor harpooned in the center of his chest, drops his jaw like a puppet and mumbles, “Clyde.”
Suddenly he somersaults forward; he moves down the stairs like a slinky. At the bottom of the stairs, he lands on his stomach. I hear the straight razor plunge deeper between his pectorals. He has a pair of nail scissors lodged in his right Achilles.
Three beeps come from the kitchen. The coffee is done.
Victoria comes down the stairs and lunges from the second to last step with a pink bathrobe belt. She lands on top of Ben – the straight razor inserts deeper – and starts to choke him with the belt.
I feel my intestines knot and stomach kick like a shoe.
Another set of beeps come from the kitchen.
Victoria looks over to detect the sound and we make eye contact. “Clyde,” she says under her breath as if being loud is forbidden. She gets off of Ben and rolls him onto his back. With his navy blue pants and blood-splattered white button-down, he looks like a wrinkled American flag. Victoria kneels down, takes ahold of the straight razor’s exposed handle and wiggles it out of his chest. She turns on me. “You shouldn’t be here.” She flicks her wrist and the razor folds back into its socket.