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Beatrice and I waited, seated at our dining table, the smell of herbs and vinegar permeated from the cutting board in the kitchen.
"He said he would be here by now," my wife said, rapidly stamping her feet under the table in anticipation.
There was a shrill, echoing ring from down the hall. I was so transfixed upon my wife's trembling fingers, it barely registered that the phone was ringing. I shot up, bolted over, and answered it.
"He-hello, Franklin?" I said, pausing to steady my trembling voice, "We should have started an hour ago, where are you?"
"Look, I've changed my mind," the whimpering man replied, "I don't want to answer the personal ad. I've called the police on you. I'm sorry."
The dial tone droned, and I dropped the phone to hang loosely by its cord. In a moment of passion, I hurried over to the kitchen and grabbed the largest knife I could from the chopping board. "The cops are onto to us, so it's now or never... I hope I taste alright."
I buried the knife into my stomach and let out a howl. The pain was excruciating, but it was worth it to see the smile now spread upon her face.
"I love you, so much," she said.
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