There isn’t a married woman alive, even the most congenially married
woman, who hasn’t wished at one time or another that her husband would fall
under a bus. Those women, fast-walking early mornings, elbows swinging at
awkward angles, chattering like magpies to each other, with no designated
listener, speak openly about the insurance money. They speak of new lives in Paris, Chanel jackets, eating
pastry with almond paste, and driving frivolous Fiats through avenues lined
with aged sycamores. Insurance
money and a dead husband are the easiest ways out of a prickly collaboration
like marriage.
Why wait for an accident? Why not murder him?
How would she do it?
How would she do it?
This is so great! My husband and I were recently discussing each others' insurance policies. When he asked me how much I had, my response was, no lie, "Not enough to kill me!" Hahaha!
ReplyDeleteHolly Crow I love this! Please go on… I'm plotting even as I type. Though I have to pause to take a bus to the bank.
ReplyDeleteWhat a modern, demented Jane Austen you are!
ReplyDeleteI would keep reading!
ReplyDeleteThere was an avalanche.
ReplyDeleteHe loved to backwoods ski. Why, though, had he disregarded the morning's avalanche reports? Why did he take that particular route? Where was his transponder? So many questions...
Go for it, Louise.
ReplyDeletePoison. Over a month or so, enough time for him to be sickly and everyone to think it was inevitable.
ReplyDeleteWaiting with baited breath for what's coming next...write on Louise!
ReplyDelete