The woman closed the cell phone and threw it across the room. He crashed against the wall and let out a little sick cry as he died. She lay on the bed, her nightgown a dirty, wrinkled puddle around her, brazen in broad daylight. She looked above the slow rotation of the ceiling fan, imagined her throat bare to the blades, felt the caress of an artificial breeze. Outside, a wind chime echoed, a melancholy sound like gently shattering glass. A vein twitched in his limp wrist. Eight days. Eight days since the hordes of flowers had made the air foul with a sweet stench, since the cry of the telephone had become a daily song rather than a daily disturbance. Eight days later, her husband promptly dressed for work, then, just as promptly, pulled out his father's antique pistol and shot himself in the mouth. She had come home that evening to find a bowl of soggy cornflakes, stained pink and a jagged red streak on the wall. He lay stiff and hollow on the linoleum like a pinstriped mannequin. The air in the room was rich. It settled in his lungs and numbed his entire body like an anesthetic. She liked the feeling of indifference. She imagined this was what her husband had often felt, melting into his leather recliner, falling asleep before his head hit the pillow. Hearing the hollow click of the trigger a split second before his eyes shot to black. But this feeling did not last; she felt obliged to rummage through her drawers. She told herself that it was a purely practical task, but personal. His hands sifted through the folds of his faded linen shirts, the ones that clung to his skin on scorching summer days. He loved wearing these shirts; she hated washing them. Now... middle of paper... his throat and slight spasms ran through his fingers. She rarely drank but now she felt incredibly drunk. She was drunk on revelations, struggling in limbo, a slave to a great wild thing. She could almost taste the bitter taste of gunmetal in her own mouth, and she wondered: What name was written on the bullet that had severed her husband's spine? Hers, or that of her lover? The dizziness subsided in an instant. She put the photo back in its place in the drawer and closed it; she couldn't find anything else to do. Turning to the window, she watched the solitary sun dip below the houses, its dark outlines silhouetted against a bloody sky. The fan blades hummed above her. She felt slightly ill, but this feeling was not new. She prayed that maybe tomorrow would be easier. For her, marriage had been stiflingly simple, now widowhood was painfully complex..