They say the Eskimos have 37 words for snow. It’s a lie of course. But you can appreciate the sentiment.
Watercolors are a little like that. I mean, expression through varying shades and gradation. Sounds nice. Except there’s not enough red to paint some revenge right.
Watercolors are a little like that. I mean, expression through varying shades and gradation. Sounds nice. Except there’s not enough red to paint some revenge right.
Like a Fox by Rose Lee-Delgado
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Sensing Roger’s presence, Angela looked up from her book and
turned toward him. “I’m calling it a night,” he said.
She nodded, smiling faintly.
“Coming?” he said.
“In a bit,” she said.
“I guess I’ll say goodnight then.”
“Before you go,” she said, catching him mid-stride. “Before
you go, I wondered if you’ve read it yet.”
“Read what?”
“My story,” she said. “I gave it to you last week, remember?”
“’I remember,” he said, “and yes, I’ve read it.”
“What did you think?”
“Now?” he said, glancing at his watch.
“Please,” she said. “I’d appreciate it.”
Nodding, he crossed the living room and positioned himself
behind a large easy chair opposite her. Gripping the back of the chair as
though it were a lectern, he gazed in her direction. It was his preferred
professorial stance, one Angela had seen many times during the past twenty-five
years. She smoothed her skirt, folded her hands in her lap and looked up at him.
“Problems?” she said, still smiling.
“I’ll try to explain,” he said. “As I recall, a man and a
woman are in bed together. It wasn’t clear whether they were married, but
anyway, sometime during the night while he’s asleep, she slits his throat. Afterward,
she doesn’t attempt to hide what she did, or to escape. Instead, she goes
outside and sits on the front steps until daybreak, blood all over her. A passerby
notices, and calls the police. When they arrive, she admits what she did, and when
asked why, she shrugs and says only that his number came up. That’s basically it.”
“You remember it well.”
“The problem is, readers will want to know why she killed
him,” he said, “but you don’t give them anything to go on. You refer to him as narrow-minded
and judgmental, but is this reason enough to kill him?”
“Hmmm.”
“If she stood to gain financially, or if there had been
abuse or infidelity on his part, I could understand, but nothing like this was
mentioned.”
“True.”
“It doesn’t make sense. How could any sane person do what
she did, and then shrug it off?”
Angela nodded.
“To be fair, I suppose there are people who would
appreciate the gruesome details you provided, like the part where she nudged
him so that he rolled over and exposed his throat, or the part where she positioned
the tip of the knife just below one of his ear lobes before driving it in and slashing
him from ear to ear, as you put it. But even people who like this sort of stuff
would expect more than just blood and gore.”
Angela nodded again.
“What you’ve written is simply a description of a woman who
seems crazy. If there’s a story here, I couldn’t find it.”
“I see.”
“Let me make a suggestion,” he said, stroking his graying
goatee. “Take a course on creative writing. Study the subject, learn the fundamentals.”
“That’s an idea.”
“It’s possible, of course, that writing isn’t the best creative
outlet for you. Have you considered anything else?” He hesitated, then added, “What
about watercolors?”
“Watercolors?”
“Why not,” he said, warming to the subject. “Do you
remember when Rob was what, five or six, and we gave him that watercolor set? You
showed him what to do, and I remember how well you could paint, how easily it
came to you.”
“Let’s not start, okay?” Roger said. “It’s late, and
besides, how many times do I have to say I was wrong? It was a poor choice of
words, and I’ve already told you that I’d apologize to Rob if I knew how to
contact him.”
“A poor choice of words, you say? Calling him a fairy, a little
faggot, a fucking queer, that’s what you’re calling a poor choice of words?”
“Please, you’re acting like you’ll never see him again,
but you know he’ll come home sooner or later, if only to see you.”
“No, he won’t. When he walked out, he said I was no better
than you, otherwise, I’d leave with him. Remember that?”
“Sweet Jesus, can’t we drop it, at least for now? I have an
early faculty meeting.”
“Ah yes, a faculty meeting,” Angela said, her voice heavy
with irony. “Ever wonder what your colleagues would think if they knew the
truth about why Rob has been away so long? I’ve never told anyone what you did,
you know. I’m too ashamed.”
They stared at each other for several long moments before Angela’s
face softened. “You’re right, this isn’t
the time,” she said. “Any more thoughts about my story?”
“No, that’s all. I’m sorry I had to be so negative.”
“Don’t apologize,” she said. “You’ve been very helpful. Go
on to bed, get some sleep.”
Two hours later, Angela peered into their bedroom. Roger was
curled up on his side of the bed, and seemed fast asleep.
She moved on to Roger’s study and rummaged through his
desk until she found his copy of the story. She glanced at his red-penciled comments
before tearing each page into small pieces, which she flushed away in a nearby bathroom.
She next entered the kitchen and went to the oak block that held their cutlery.
Without hesitation, she withdrew the six-inch chef’s knife. Well-balanced and razor-sharp,
it was her favorite.
Holding the knife at her side, she returned to their
bedroom and stood in the doorway, watching Roger sleep. After several minutes, she
took a deep breath and approached the bed. Her right hand gripped the knife, its
gleaming blade now raised and poised for a downward thrust. Her other hand was extended
toward Roger, ready to give him a little nudge, just enough to make him roll
over and expose his throat. 
