Ричард Деминг - Manhunt. Volume 1, Number 6, June, 1953

“Very much?”

She kissed my ear, shivered a little, and came closer to me.

“Yes, I miss you very much,” I said.

She drew away from me suddenly. “Do you like the house, Ben? I did just what you said. I moved out of the apartment as soon as I got your letter. You should have told me sooner, Ben. I had no idea you didn’t like the city.”

“The neighbors were too snoopy,” I said. “This is better. Out in the country like this.”

“But it’s so lonely. I’ve been here a week already, and I don’t know a soul yet.” She giggled. “There’s hardly a soul to know.”

“Good,” I said.

“Good?” Her face grew puzzled. “What do you mean, Ben?”

“Adele,” I told her, “you talk too goddamn much.” I pulled her face to mine and clamped my mouth onto hers, just to shut her up. She brought her arms up around my neck immediately, tightening them there, bringing her body close to mine. I tried to move her away from me gently, but my arms were full of her, and her lips were moist and eager. Her eyes closed tightly, and I sighed inwardly and listened to the lonely chirp of the crickets outside the window.

“Do you love me?” she asked later.

“Yes.”

“Really, Ben? Really and truly?”

“Really and truly.”

“How much do you love me?”

“A whole lot, Adele. Heaps.”

“But do you... where are you going, Ben?”

“Something I want to get from my jacket.”

“Oh, all right.” She stopped talking, thinking for a moment. “Ben, if you had to do it all over again, would you marry me? Would you still choose me as your wife?”

“Of course.” I walked to the closet and opened the door. I knew just where I’d left it. In the right-hand jacket pocket.

“What is it you’re getting, Ben? A present?” She sat up against the pillows again. “Is it a present for me?”

“In a way,” I said. I closed my fist around it and turned abruptly. Her eyes opened wide.

“Ben! A gun. What... what are you doing with a gun?”

I didn’t answer. I grinned, and she saw something in my eyes, and her mouth went slack.

“Ben, no!” she said.

“Yes, Adele.”

“Ben, I’m your wife. Ben, you’re joking. Tell me you’re joking.”

“No, Adele, I’m quite serious.”

She swung her legs over the side of the bed, the covers snatching at the thin material of her gown, pulling it up over her thighs.

“Ben, why? Why are you... Ben, please. Please!”

She was cringing against the wall now, her eyes saucered with fear.

I raised the gun.

“Ben!”

I fired twice, and both bullets caught her over her heart. I watched the blood appear on the front of her gown, like red mud slung at a clean, white wall. She toppled forward suddenly, her eyes blank. I put the gun away, dressed, and packed my suitcase.

I opened the screen door and walked into the kitchen. There was the smell of meat and potatoes frying, a smell I had come to dislike intensely. The radio was blaring, the way it always was when I arrived. I grimaced.

“Anybody home?” I called.

“Ben?” Her voice was surprised, anxious. “Is that you, Ben?”

“Hello, Betty,” I said tonelessly. She rushed to the front door and threw herself into my arms. Her hair was in curlers, and she smelled of frying fat.

“Ben, Ben darling, you’re back. Oh Ben, how I missed you.”

“Did you?”

“Ben, let me look at you.” She held me away from her and then lifted her face and took my mouth hungrily. I could still smell the frying fat aroma.

I pushed her away from me gently. “Hey,” I said, “cut it out. Way you’re behaving, people would never guess we’ve been married three years.”

She sighed deeply. “You know, Ben,” she said, “I hate your job.”