Poison. Right in the jug of filtered water, waiting harmlessly in the thrice-shared fridge. Something clear, unscented, so he never sees it coming. Take it back to her room and drink deep, babe. He'll set the glass next to the mass of food he helped her prepare from the groceries I bought, on the dishes I washed. I sit, hungry, praying for the end to finally come. Concentrated detergent with bleach substitute never worked as well as the real thing. I hear the laments as the plate tips our of his butterfingers from my seat in the room between his near and certain death. Lysol canister, rigged to explode at the slightest touch. The one time he cleans will be the last. I hear the boom from my seat outside her door. The shrieks. A quickly opening door. Two lovers running from the blast. I smile, watching the show unfold before me from my perch on the living room couch. They don't even glance at me in their panic to escape the burning wreckage. Sliding on shoes. Nails through the heels of his Goodwill Nikes, tendons slit and useless. Dragging himself across the unvacuumed floor. Months-old balls of black cat fur tufting to his stupid, unseasonable shorts. Blood dotting the carpet between dust clumps. She watches, dumbfounded, from her gaping bedroom door. I stand, finishing it with a blunt whack, putting him out of his entirely deserved misery. Sweet vengeance. The hammer he never used on the paintings he never hung.
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