I don’t drink…wine

I cooked you something.”

He cautiously sits across from her. He doesn’t have to cut into the steak to know it’s not rested. Blood pools on the plate, saturates couscous and collards served on the side.

“Eat,” she commands.

He saws with his knife, winces, feigns a smile as his tooth hits a piece of bone or rock inside the meat. He gulps it down with wine.

“More?” She hasn’t touched what’s in front of her, which makes him nervous.

“Aren’t you going to eat?”

“I’ve had my fill.”

It was then that he realized, she’s going to kill me.

Let me know I'm not talking to myself.

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