After three attempts—breakfast, lunch, and dinner—my husband went to bed alive and well, even demanding sex before he eventually passed out.
Immediately, I dial the apothecary.
“The poison didn’t work!” I say a pitch above whispering.
“These things take time.”
“But he’s not even sick!” I glance down to ensure he’s still asleep. His shoulders rise and fall at an even rhythm.
“A stronger dose may be necessary.”
“I’ve paid you a fortune!”
“Half-priced this time!”
Weary of her promises, I hang up, decide to take the matter into my own hands, press the pillow over his face.
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