(The devotion of one Man’s Wife & the dangers of compulsive behavior & secrets)
She pats the side of her freshly sharp ax, tied neatly to her aprons’ taught hand towel sash; discretely concealed under a pink plastic mack.
Searching high and low for the vender that sold her husband that last fatal snack. “Are you that man? Are you that vender?!”
The woman in the housecoat pleadingly asked.
Her Husband surrounded by aromas encircled, deliciously tempting and tease him away from thoughts of his wife’s daily heart healthy fair;
Hiding in the shadows of dank back street alleys, peeking from behind a set of cast iron stairs, He solicits the street carts like five dollar whores, hoping not to be seen or known he’d been there.
Hoagies’ and grinders fully loaded w/salami, fried pepperoni, and hot melted cheese, Oozing sweet juices’, down the man’s hand to his cuffs;
All of this contributing to the poor woman’s grief.
He removed from his change purse a five that’d been hidden from his wife’s carful budget so sneakily stashed, he slipped from the shadows and whispered quite softly, “steak bomb, extra cheese, now hurry!” As he thrust out his cash!
She tried many times to curb this man’s diet, no luck with crudités’ he just wouldn’t try it. So she began to reduce the sugar, salt and fat.
He’d smile and eat it, and that was just that.
Untill she began to see signs of a most greasy nature, found on the cuffs and the knot of his tie, small specks of minutia can be quite telling,
to a methodical housewife they just do not lie.
Grease is an insidious stain, hard to remove without spoiling the grain of the weave. So she scrubbed away gently but firm on the spots, restoring the whiteness to his freshly pressed cuffs and his brown flannel tie. Just to appear again and again, “What could these stains be?” she wailed the maniacal cry!
Gorging in secret, alone in the dark, inside of a tunnel south west of the park. With the foil pealed back, the juices “Drip” flowing, down his hatch it went, not thinking or knowing of the outcome of this nasty affair.
“Luscious oh Luscious!” he says with a smack. Devouring it quick making waste of the sack. The only thing left was the wrapper you see, shoved into his pocket with ravenous glee.
This wrapper, the evidence of her husband’s demise, Displaying the months of deception and lies, lay folded, grease stained and pressed, under a tear stained hanky in the pocket at her breast. With only the word “Sal’s”, no phone, nor address.
The man gobbled quickly without aid of a drink, when it came to the heal he just did not think that the dry of the bread just might not go down as the greasy filling had, on his tie and the ground.
He shove it in last with the least little thought; getting stuck in his throat not even a cough could escape him.
In the town where they lived there were 13 Sal’s in total,
beyond the town line becoming quite vast;
but the task still moved forth to horizons imputable,
so she put on her mack and made way for the door.
He grasped at his throat, not a soul around, his face turning blue as he fell to the ground. “THUD” went the man and that’s how they found him, grease stained and stiff with sub crumbs surrounding.
She repeated once again: “Are You THAT Vender that Killed My Husband, the man I loved, so Sweet, SO TENDER?!!”
“OH NO LADY! My name is not Sal its Tony for sure ask anyone around, I’m a well known fixture in this part of town! I’ve never killed anyone, I swear on the grave of my motha, my fatha”, clasping his hands, attempting to pray……..
Not caring if he’s Tony or Guido or Sal, she removed the ax from her sash and struck the man down, two strikes, maybe three, she just couldn’t tell.
One last chop and there was gore all around; just a low gurgling from the heap was the only sound from the departing vender.
“That’s for killing my husband, so sweet and so tender”
she murmured as she slipped out of her blood stained mack and rubbers that kept her neat and clean.
She checked her list not twice but thrice and left the bloody scene.