by Sandra Seamans
Mary grinned as she glanced around the kitchen one last time. The room was a salmonella nightmare. Dirty, food-encrusted plates were breeding bacteria in the sink, open cartons of milk were sunbathing to a perfect curdle on the countertop and several pounds of naked chicken breasts were dribbling sticky juices across the glass top of her husband’s pristine kitchen table. Thoughts of Frederick keeling over dead of a heart attack when he entered the desecrated kitchen danced through Mary’s head. Then she sighed, life wouldn’t be that obliging.
She ran her hand across the purple bruise that swelled across the left side of her face, flinching as she touched a tender spot. She couldn't survive another bout with her husband’s obsession. Life was too short to waste on a man whose only passion in life was a sanitary house.