Marsha sat in John's recliner – head bowed, an empty jar between her dry palms. The darkness acted as a whetstone, honing her senses to a fine edge. She detected the Chanel No. 5 lingering on his sweater; his footsteps in the hall irritated her as much as the grind of a dentist's drill. He'd stopped sneaking in a long time ago – he had that little respect for her. He didn't care if she was in their bed or not. She knew he wouldn't turn on the light to find out.
Marsha set the jar on the side table. John screamed and thrashed. The jar vibrated. Marsha smiled, satisfied that her husband was remembering – and regretting – the last words he'd spoken to her, the question he'd so carelessly asked this morning: "Don't you have anything better to do than collect black widow spiders?"