The lady kicked off her garden sandals and stood barefoot, finding the coolness of the rock surface soothing. A particular image was clouding her thoughts. It was the picture of the birch-coloured wooden knife holder on her kitchen countertop. Her hand had reached out, grasped and pulled the black handle of the largest knife there. With the whole knife extracted, it’s serrated edges appeared dirtied by ruby red streaks. Blood. She was certain of it.
Mrs. Watanabe-Watts stepped back from the brink, with no recollection of what the knife might have been used for. For what purpose, or on whom. Her husband of thirty-five years, Morley Watts PhD, as far as she could recall, was safely asleep upstairs in their bed. She did not remember using the knife on him. Continue reading “The Thing Bugging Mrs. Watanabe-Watts”
