The Knife

She put the knife down, calmly, on the kitchen counter. The frantic snippets of a news channel wafted in from the adjacent room. She blinked, moistened her lips and gulped down a scream.

The kitchen was a mess. She moved slightly, coming to life slowly after her sudden inertia. She looked around. The ceilings needed dusting. As did the counter.

She wondered whether she would do the dishes first … or the dusting. A gecko called out, its call ringing out in the background of the now muffled sounds from the TV and the faintly energetic hum of the crickets outside.

She tripped on something as she made her way to the sink — the beginnings of a song stirring up inside her head, coursing through her numbness, slowly.

She lost balance, stumbled onto the counter and straightened herself. Ignoring it, as if in a trance, she went ahead and mumbled the beginning notes of the song.

As the notes built up, increasingly more precise and louder — her mind whirred, trying to remember the lyrics to it all. She reached the sink and picked up a dirty dish off the heap. She sighed, cursing her husband as she applied the liquid detergent on the piece of sponge and began to spread it around on the dish. The curse stuck out sore from the romantic tune she was humming.

As she repeatedly circled the circumference of the dish, sponging it, her eyes habitually probed for stains allover the room. Her eyes strayed to the knife on the counter for only a second’s worth before they came to rest on the obstacle on the floor.

The knife had attracted a small pool of blood around it, while the corpse on the floor — her husband’s — retained its position on the thick carpet. She turned back to her chore and rinsed the dish, her tune acquiring the hope of words now …