A Cozy Affair
A full-figured, rosy-cheeked young woman with eyes like chunky blue ice sat on a stool in her mother’s warm little kitchen, twirling her soft, straw-colored hair. “Mama, that smells really wonderful. How did you spice it?”
“Well, honey,” said her kind-faced, equally matronly mother while peering into the oven, “I’m afraid that’s a trade secret. Now, why don’t you tell me what, exactly, happened last night?”
“I don’t really want to talk about it until after dinner,” replied the daughter, averting her eyes from her mother’s gentle but penetrating gaze.
“No, darlin’ girl, we need to discuss it right here and now. Dinner will not be served until we’ve talked things out.”
“Ok, ok, mama, we can talk about it. But then I don’t want it brought up again, all right?”
“Well,” she said, shifting anxiously, “Last night business was slower than it’s been in a long time, so the manager let me go a few hours early. I didn’t really feel like going home, so I went to the store and got some bread, then drove to that little pond by the church and just kind of sat on the old bench there, feeding the ducks and thinking while the sun set.”
“Go on,” said her mother, listening intently.
“Um, I started to think about how much time I’ve been spending with Andy lately, how that’s sort of put a strain on our relationship because I haven’t been over here as much, for dinner and our talks. It made me feel really sad, sitting there with the ducks in the dark, so I got up and went home.”
“Then I grabbed the stun gun from my purse and shocked Andy as he was taking a bath. He seized up before slumping down in the water and I thought about just leaving him like that but suddenly I remembered how he’d been keeping you from me so I shocked him eight more times and then grabbed a paring knife from the dishwasher and sliced through his throat and…”
“I know the rest, sweetheart,” interjected her mother, as she reached down to turn off the timer and open the oven. Rich, buttery aromas filled the warm little kitchen. “I think you’re finally well enough for mommy to take you off all those nasty medications,” she said, as she used a pink oven mitt embroidered with ginger bread houses to grasp a large earthenware baking dish. In it was Andy’s head, eyes glazed, cooked to crispy perfection.
Her daughter smiled, inhaling deeply. “Mama, mama! I know, I know! You used rosemary and garlic!”
“That’s my girl.”