Hector was going to die tonight, to begin with. She’d planned it that way for weeks – he was a bore, a monumental drag, a snorer of such caliber he could rival a freight train. But even that was almost charming compared to his endless soliloquies about his distressing cholesterol levels. Besides, getting rid of him meant she could finally be with Vic – her secret lover, her partner in crime, her delicious indulgence. No more sneaking around or pretending Hector’s nightly pontifications about index funds weren’t making her want to throw herself out the nearest window. It would be a pity, though; she always did feel so terribly safe snuggled up against his wallet.

Afternoon Tea was barely over when the brass doorbell outside her mansion rang. It was Vic. Away she flew, still holding her mug of caffè crema .

“Oh, Vic!”

“Antonia –” And they held each other lovingly, lovingly. In her bosom there was a bright glowing place, with a shower of little orange sparks coming from it. She had just washed her hair and had on a burgundy turban, with a dark wet curl stamped on each cheek.

“It’s nearly time.” smiled Antonia, swanning up the front steps back inside, “Soon, Vic. Soon, we’ll have everything we’ve ever wanted.”

When she turned back, Vic’s furrowed brows gave him a look of confusion. This, of course in her current mood, was so utterly adorable… Antonia tossed her head back and laughed.

“Oh, don’t you worry,” she purred, running a manicured finger along the lapel of his coat. “Just trust me. Things are falling into place. And when they do, we’ll finally be free. Free to marry, to live how we’ve always dreamed. No more hiding. No more secrets.”

“Marry?” said Vic, “You’re not – We can’t possibly –”

Oh, the darling ! How sweet!

“Who says?” Antonia grinned and hopped up to wrap her legs around his waist, resting her back against the burnished wall. He bent to her will and swooped in to capture her mouth with his. How hungrily he devoured her! When she finally pulled back, breathless and beaming, she could see the faintest trace of concern lingering in his eyes.

“You’re not serious about…”

“Shhh!” Antonia brushed against his lips to silence him and slid gracefully to the floor, “You’re so terribly earnest sometimes. That’s why I love you. But just trust me this time, Vic.”

“Antonia,” Vic began again, his voice low and cautious.

“Ah-ah!” she interrupted, wagging a playful finger at him. “Not another word of protest, darling. Come now, let’s toast to the future. I have the most exquisite Barolo waiting for us.”

She wasn’t the kind of girl that cooked, but she’d indulge her husband just this once. Dinner, she decided, would be Hector’s last meal – a spectacular finale for a decidedly unspectacular man. Antonia went to great lengths for presentation: a perfectly roasted duck with crispy golden skin, potatoes so buttery they practically melted on the tongue, and a delicate side of caramelized pears.

When Hector came bumbling home at precisely eight o’clock, she didn’t even look out the window – she knew exactly when he’d be arriving. That’s what comes with years of managing a man so simple, so delightfully predictable.

“Antonia!” he called out with that thick, foreign accent that mangled her name, “I bring your favorite! A good, delicious Merlot. They had only one left. Had to fight an old lady for it, but she didn’t stand one chances.”

Oh, she did so wish that he’d learn to speak English! But no matter – she couldn’t complain tonight.

“Such a warrior you are,” Antonia cooed, taking the bottle from his hands and watching him melt under her touch like a dog with a treat. “I truly adore you, sweetie. You never fail to surprise me.”

She walked him into the dining room, where the table had already been set for two.

“But you never cook, Antonia!” He cried with a satisfied grunt, sitting down at the head of the table and wiping perspiration from his forehead, “This is special occasion. Special occasion tonight indeed.”

It had been far too easy – this plan of hers. Just a touch too much of the herbs, a sprinkle more of the spices, and her dear old husband was done for. A perfectly harmless dose of something to make his heart skip a beat… or stop altogether.

“Eat up, Hec.”

Dinner passed slower than molasses. She watched Hector’s jaws work horribly over the gobbets of fat, big hands going quickly to the flesh of the duck, the bread basket, the oil-glazed potatoes. It might have been more bearable if he’d been silent. But no – he had a talent for carrying conversation mid-chew.

“So then – mmph – he told me, you’re too careful with your money, Hector. Can you believe that? Too careful! The man who bought a car without an engine is telling me –” Hector droned on and on about the absurdity of the man’s financial decisions, a subject that clearly required more than one mention. Antonia sipped her wine and nodded solemnly. “Yes, yes, absolutely. So tragic,” she said.

A few more bites of the duck, and Hector was slurring his words.

“That,” he declared, “was the finest meal you ever cooked. Maybe you should do it more often, Antonia. Could learn to be – what is word? Domesticated !”

“Let’s not ruin the moment.” She smiled wide enough to show teeth.

The clock chimed nine. The waiting was agony… Surely the poison would have taken effect by now?

“Are you feeling alright, sweetie?” she finally asked, feigning concern.

“Never better!” Hector garbled. “In fact, I might have seconds! You know, Doc says my cholesterol is perfect now. Clean bill of health! I’m allowed to eat so much more now.”

Goodness, the man was a pain in the neck even when he was dying! She wasn’t one for brutality, but she would resort to physical means if it came down to it – wouldn’t quite be the theatrical exit that she’d planned, but it would have to do. Yes… Improvisation it was, then.

“Come on now,” Antonia all but dragged her husband up the stairs to the bed, “Let’s get you to bed, Hec.”

Perhaps the poison hadn’t been quite the right blend, or perhaps his obstinacy had simply prolonged the inevitable – but no matter now. His bulk was unwieldy in her grip, and she clenched her jaw as his unsteady feet shuffled behind her. Finally, she shoved him backward, and he stumbled toward the bed, landing with a heavy thud.

But then, of course, he did what he always did – he tried to play the martyr. "You know," he slurred, "if you wanted to leave, you could’ve just said it... I wouldn’t... I wouldn’t have stopped you..."

Antonia let out a humorless laugh. "Hector, darling, you're about ten minutes too late for that." Her blood boiled with irritation at his pathetic, simpering, pug-like face. “Goodnight, darling.” she purred, and before Hector could register her words, a pillow was pressed firmly to his face. Suddenly awake and alert to this new danger, he thrashed against her grip, throwing her against the bed frame and sending waves of pain radiating down her back – but she refused to let go. She was ready for this. He flailed under her like a fish out of water and Antonia clamped a vice-like hand around his throat. Another push – his hands grasped desperately at the sides of the bed, trying to claw his way free. Did he always have to be so impertinent!

“Don’t make me do this the hard way, sweetie.” she growled, feeling a flash of cold fury run through her like fire, “I’m not letting you go until I finish my job!”

A dog in a bath – that was what he was. Her knees dug into the bed frame as she shifted her weight and pinned him down. So he still thought he could fight back? Cute. Antonia shoved the pillow down harder, her body weight pressing all the more forcefully onto his chest as he shuddered beneath her. Good – the stubborn bastard was finally quitting.

But then… his body spasmed. A violent jerk. Antonia’s eyes widened. No, not this again. Another spasming twitch of his limbs – his nostrils quivering, his mouth bulging open in an incoherent gasp.

Why wasn’t he dead yet?!

Antonia gritted her teeth, pulling the pillow tighter, smothering the life out of him. Finally, with one last wrenching gulp of air that sounded like a pig at slaughter, he stopped. The deed was done. His grotesque face was frozen in a half-formed expression of panic, like a fish caught at the moment of death just before it was gutted at the kitchen sink.

The doorbell rang.

“Mrs Ashton?” said one of the officers at the front door, “Is your husband home?”

Running a hand quickly through her wild curls, Antonia tried for an inviting smile. “Oh, well, he’s… Resting. May I ask what this is about?”

Hector’s gaudy, personalized keyring dangled in front of her face.

“We found this on the street just outside. He must have dropped them.”

A breath caught in her throat. “Oh, how thoughtless of Hec!” cried Antonia, “Thank you, I’ll give it to him –”

“No can do, Ma’am. Policy says we’ve got to return all belongings straight to the intended recipient. May we come in?”

She just couldn’t get a day of good fortune, could she! Antonia forced a smile. “Of course. Right this way.”

Leading them toward the bedroom, her heart thudded uncomfortably in her chest. As they reached the door, she stopped abruptly and turned to face the officers. “You might want to brace yourselves,” she said sweetly. “He’s not quite himself tonight.”

She opened the door, and there he was – sprawled on the bed, lifeless. The officers rushed past her, checking for a pulse, but of course it was too late.

Antonia stood back as one officer turned to her, his face pale. “Mrs. Ashton,” he began, “your husband’s dead.”

She feigned shock, gasping and clutching her chest. “Oh, how dreadful!” she cried, her voice positively dripping with melodrama. “It must’ve been the cholesterol!”