Peter couldn’t remember ever hating a woman as much as he hated Maria. The problem was that Maria was his wife.
“Marrying you was the worst mistake of my life,” Peter screamed. Like every evening, Maria had cooked a heavy meal and expected him to join her. Two large schnitzels and pan-fried potatoes with bacon, where the fat still glistened in the lamplight. A thousand-calorie death sentence. Peter’s throat tightened, his stomach knotting with a familiar, searing resentment.
But tonight it would all end. Soon, he would be with Paula, the love of his life. Ten years younger than him, fit and hated heavy meals as much as him — the most striking doctor he had ever seen.
With disgust, he looked at Maria. Compared to Paula, she looked old and was starting to show fine lines. Her tight top stressed her pudginess even more, and Peter looked with disgust at the bulging rolls of fat.
The fight this evening wasn’t part of his plan. A plan he had tried to discuss with Paula some time ago, but she didn’t want to hear about it. “Are you crazy? I’m a doctor, you didn’t say a word to me,” she had screamed at him.
The memory of Paula’s rejection stung, but the steam from the schnitzel pulled him back to the dim light of the dining room. “Sorry, honey. I know that you really enjoy cooking, and I really appreciate it. I just don’t want to put on more weight, do you understand? Sorry for screaming at you. I bought some exquisite white wine for us, an expensive Bordeaux.”
Maria smiled at Peter forgivingly and gave him a kiss on the cheek.
“Do you also want a glass of the Bordeaux?” Peter asked. It was a rhetorical question. Maria would drink wine, regardless of whether it was rotgut or the most expensive bottle. She was already sitting at the dinner table in the living room. Peter opened the bottle of wine in the kitchen, poured two glasses, and dissolved a heavy dose of liquid Lorazepam from a dropper into the left glass in front of him.
Just be careful to give her the correct glass and not kill yourself, Peter thought.
“I’m curious how you’ll like this,” Peter said, putting both glasses on the table, the poisoned one on Maria’s side.
“Thank you, darling. I forgot the napkins. Can you please get two from the kitchen?” Maria said.
“Yes, of course, I’ll get them.”
“Cheers,” Peter said, after returning from the kitchen and sitting down.
“To your health,” Maria replied. They both took a big sip.
“I don’t like the wine; it has a bit of a bitter taste,” Peter said.
“I love the taste of the wine,” Maria said, her smile widening.
Peter yawned. His hand shivered. He looked at Maria. She stared at him with a cold look. His eyes drifted to her hands. She was wearing pristine white gloves. An iron weariness overcame him.
Maria slowly picked up her phone. A faint ringing tone cut through the silence, then a familiar female voice saying, “Hello, darling.”
“Darling, it’s done,” Maria said. “I love you and can’t wait to be with you again.”
Peter had never felt so tired in his life; he couldn’t keep his eyes open anymore. “You will never get away with this,” he stuttered with the last of his strength, his tongue turning to lead.
“Of course I will,” Maria laughed. “There are only your fingerprints on the bottle and on your glass.” Then Maria spoke back into the phone. “I will be there in one hour, love of my life. I just need to wash the dishes. Peter ate alone and committed suicide. Too bad for him that his suicidal thoughts are all over his medical records. Put the champagne on ice, but please, with no extra ingredients.”
These were the last words Peter heard before his lifeless body dropped from the chair to the floor. Maria smiled, knelt beside Peter, and kissed him on the cheek. “You laughed at me a thousand times. But the last laugh is mine.”
