I started to suspect that Peter was having an affair when he left his ring at home for the third day in a row.

I woke up the first day and staggered into the bathroom, lines pressed red into my face from the pillow. I yawned and ran my hand through my hair, a few blonde snarls halting my progression. I opened my eyes wide and breathed in sharply to wake myself up and leaned close to the mirror to examine my pores. I turned my head left, right and then spotted the twinkle of gold in the harsh bathroom fluorescents. I picked up the ring and padded back into the bedroom, throwing myself onto the bed and grabbing the phone off my nightstand while I held the ring above my head, turning it in the light to examine it.

“What,” Peter said when he clicked onto the line. His voice had an edge of annoyance that made my eyebrows creep up my forehead.

“Hi?” I said quizzically, confused by my husband’s sudden animosity towards me. I heard Peter sigh dramatically.

“Sorry Susan, I’m just up to my eyeballs in s*** here at work. What’s going on?” I let the hand that was holding the ring drop to my side on the bed and gazed up at the ceiling.

“You forgot your ring.”

“What ring?” he answered obnoxiously. I sighed.

“The one I put on your finger at that little party we had 16 years ago with 250 of our closest friends. You remember it, right? Our wedding?”

“Right, sorry. Have a lot on my mind. I’ll be home late tonight. Don’t wait up.” Click. I stared at the phone in my hand, my mouth agape. I heard the beeping line-disconnected tone on the receiver and I put the phone back down on the cradle. Astonished, I walked back to the bathroom and put his ring back on the counter before going on with my day.

Peter came home at two in the morning, heaving into bed fully dressed with a sigh. I rolled over sleepily, ready to wrap him in my arms and get a kiss but instead he turned his back on me and curled up on the edge of the bed, soon fast asleep. I propped myself up on one elbow in disbelieve, my annoyance rising, and turned away from him, lulling myself back into sleep.

When I woke up the next morning and checked the bathroom, his ring had been pushed to the other side of the sink and sat glinting and mocking me on the cool marble. I swore and walked back to the bedroom. I grabbed the phone and called Peter again.

“Yeah,” he said in a careless busy tone.

“Your ring is still here,” I said, my voice tense.

“Oops. Leave it there. I’m going to be late again tonight. See you later,” he said nonchalantly and, before I could say goodbye, he hung up again. I groaned and slammed the phone down on the cradle.

Peter came home at two again but didn’t crawl into bed. He took his pillow and a blanket at the foot of our bed and walked out of the room, closing the door behind him. I could hear him in the living room outside the door, easing himself onto the couch and soon his snores snuck under the door. Tears brimming in my eyes, I rolled over and went back to sleep.

I woke up the third morning and stood over his ring, on the kitchen counter this time, and felt the jealously knock into me, wave after wave of rage lapping at me. He’s nailing that b**** Cindy in accounting from the Christmas party, I kept thinking. Or maybe it was Monica, his secretary. Or maybe both, a small voice said in the back of my head. Once dressed, I threw on my coat and stuffed the ring into my pocket before storming out the door, my heels striking the stone floor as I walked.

I stood outside Peter’s office looking up, the sunglasses he had bought me for my birthday this year offering me little protection against the sun glaring into my eyes over the top of the building. I then walked inside, my keys rattling loudly inside my bag in the quiet lobby. I didn’t stop walking until I was poised outside the door to Peter’s office, my fist raised and ready to pound on the door.
I froze, my fist hanging in the air. What was I going to say to him? Could I outright accuse him of f*ing Cindy or Monica or some other b****? Would he accuse me of screwing the mailman, something that I had done once or twice, I was ashamed to admit. I sighed and dropped my fist. I walked backwards to the wall opposite the door and slid down it, my breath heavy in my chest. I dug the ring out of my pocket and held it in my fingers, turning it side to side in the light and watching the reflection bounce onto the door. Suddenly, Peter opened the door and paused, looking down at me with surprise, his hand on the door and his jacket in his other hand.

“Susan. What are you doing here?” he asked nervously. “Did something happen?”

I laughed dejectedly. “Y-you, um, you forgot your ring again and…I don’t-I don’t know why I’m here.” I shook my head deliriously and staggered up to my feet. I walked up to him, kissed him slowly on the cheek, and then walked sluggishly down the hall from whence I came.

“Susan.” I stopped and turned to look back at him. “We should talk.” With those three little words, the bottom of my stomach dropped to my ankles and my knees began to shake.

“You are cheating on me,” I said meekly, my eyes lifting to meet his sorrowful gaze. He didn’t say anything, his eyes looking pleadingly into me. His face contorted, tears ready to flow down his pale cheeks.

“Susan, please. I love you. I f*ed up but I want to fix this, I do,” he said manically while he walked towards me, hands outstretched. His fingers wrapped around my arms and I looked up into his clear, blue eyes. I cleared my throat suddenly and wrenched myself from his grasp. I shook myself and stood more erect than before.

“Be home by six. Dinner is at six thirty tonight,” I said curtly before dumping the ring onto the ground and walking back down the hallway, tears forcing themselves from the corners of my eyes. I threw myself into the car and sobs wracked my body. I pressed my hand into the glass to steady myself before breathing forcefully and wiping the tears from my face. After checking my face in the mirror, I drove myself home.

I showered, donned my favorite black lingerie, spritzed Peter’s favorite perfume behind my ears and blew out my blonde hair into a halo around my face. Eyes rimmed with black liner smudged to perfection, I began the process of cooking Peter’s favorite: steak au jus. I set the table with candles and ran to my room to pick a pair of heels to match the lingerie, stopping at the safe under the bed to grab the small, loaded revolver. I placed it under my seat at the set table and sat down there, a bottle of fine red wine at my lips.

Peter cautiously walked in the house at six and saw me sitting at the table scantily clad and his breath caught in his throat in desire. I smiled seductively. “Welcome home, hubby,” I said, the words dripping off my tongue like poisoned honey. Peter walked to me, dropping his coat and his briefcase on the way, and pulled me from my seat, lips urgent on mine and hands wandering. I pushed him away and chastised him coyly with a seductive smile, a quiet cluck and a wagging finger. “Eat first, sweetie.”

He moved to his seat at the other end of the table, his eyes on my breasts and a smile flickering on his lips. He carved the steak into bite sized pieces until it was all gone and then pushed his chair out from the table, motioning to me to come sit on his lap. I reached under the chair, smiling maliciously as I got up, the gun heavy in my hand. He spotted the revolver and his eyes widened in fear. I raised the gun to the level of his heart and walked towards him, a girlish giggle burbling from my lips.

“You actually thought that I’d be this O.K. with the fact that you f*ed another woman. You actually thought that I’d let your contaminated hands touch me ever again.” I laughed and continued to stalk towards him. He was pleading softly, begging me to put the gun down but I stayed on my course towards him, the gun trained on his chest. “Well, hubby, you were wrong.”

I stood over him, a smile on my lips and the gun unwavering, while he began to cry, looking down the barrel at the end of his life. And then…

Boom.