Mental Checklist
Carefully, I attempt to climb out of Thalia’s bed while trying not to wake her. She looks so peaceful in the early morning light shining through the small gaps between her plastic blinds.
She turns her body towards mine and sleeps against my chest. It feels so natural with her resting her head in the crook of my neck.
I hold her as long as I can before I know I have to leave.
She’s such a heavy sleeper, barely stirring as I slide my body from under her slender frame and climb out of her full-sized bed.
I grab my clothes and put them on all while continuing to watch her sleep. My eyes catch on the way her exposed chest moves up and down with every breath she takes. I need to touch her again.
I reach my hand down and trail my fingers between her perfect tits.
I can feel her heartbeat faster and faster with my touch.
Slowly, my fingertips move down to her inner thigh, stopping myself before I get any closer to her most sensitive area.
I observe her naked flesh as goosebumps begin to form on her porcelain skin.
I cover her exposed body under her comforter and kiss the top of her forehead before I walk out of her bedroom.
I would have loved to stay longer. Honestly, it takes everything I have not to spend the morning lying next to her, pleasing her, hearing her moan my name again, but there are some things that I have to take care of.
My drive home is silent. The thoughts in my head would have drowned out any music I would have picked out anyway. My mental checklist is overwhelming, and the order in which I complete my tasks is critical.
First, I need to double-check the cleanliness of the house.
I had already vacuumed the carpet in our bedroom.
My bedroom . It wouldn’t hurt to sweep again so I can make sure all of Ashley’s blonde strands are no longer visible.
I want to go over the light gray marble in the bathroom with bleach and scrub the drops of blood that I may not have seen before.
Eventually, I will replace it, erasing the stain of our relationship and the evidence of our bloody affair.
My next step on the list is to call the police and file a missing persons report. Everyone always suspects the husband, so I need to do whatever I can to persuade them otherwise. It’s been three days since I saw my wife. That’s the truth of the story .
I’ll tell the police, “She’s had days where she’s stayed with friends, but she’s never been gone this long.
” What will Thalia say if she finds out my wife is missing?
Did she even know that I was married? Shit, have I mentioned Ashley in any of my episodes?
What will she think if she finds out that we fucked the same night I threw my dead wife’s body inside a dumpster?
That’s a problem for another day. I can handle her anger.
I would love to see what she looks like enraged, or how she fucks.
The house looks so much bigger without Ashley’s presence.
Good. The lingering smell of infidelity is gone, although I can detect a scent of copper in the master bathroom.
I walk straight to my bedroom and remove my clothes.
My black sweatpants and a light gray shirt are my go-to outfit choices from the large walk-in closet.
My portion has always stayed open across from Ashley’s.
Rows of pastel sweaters and dresses stare at me as if they’re personifying a feeling of guilt. Guilt for what? Murdering the spoiled, unfaithful bitch, or fucking the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen after disposing of Ashley’s body?
“I wonder if there is another entitled, cheating bitch that would want all of this useless shit.” I turn off the light and head to the hallway closet to retrieve the vacuum.
The vacuum runs effortlessly over the carpet about ten more times.
I pour the dust and whatever remnants I have of Ashley’s existence into an empty black trash bag.
Next, I move on to the marble and scrub over the same spot more times than I can count.
My thorough cleaning causes tiny tears in my blue latex gloves.
After I have finished with my obsessive cleaning, I throw the half-empty bottle of bleach and the contaminated rags in the bag with the dust and tie it off. It sits securely by the back door.
Next on the list–perhaps the most important–begins when I grab my phone from the nightstand next to my bed.
The phone rings in my ear, a sound that isn’t usually ominous, but now…
“Yes, hello. I need to file a report of a missing person… my wife. Her name? Ashley Jones. It’s been three days since I last saw her.
What was she wearing? Last I know of…” My mind scans through the memories of when I saw her last alive.
The last outfit she wore. Of course, I remember.
It’s the small details that matter. I stood in my bedroom.
Our bedroom, and pulled her black leggings down her toned legs .
I folded her slender arms through the loose sleeves of her cropped white sweatshirt.
I must be precise with this description.
“ Black leggings, and a short white sweatshirt… Yes, thank you… I understand.” The officer on the other end quickly hangs up the other line.
Just another missing person in New York City. That was easier than expected . Check.
I take the pile of clothes that I stacked from that night into the kitchen and throw it down onto the floor, and begin to search through the drawer that contains a collection of nonsensical items we have gathered over the years.
In this case, the book of matches stands out above the blank tablets of paper and random pens.
I grab the matches with one hand and the bottle of wine her parents gave us with the other.
It hasn’t been moved from the counter since that night.
The irony in this is immaculate. This will be a good substitute for gasoline.
I throw her clothes in the porcelain tub and dump a good portion of wine on the evidence.
The match lights nicely and makes a bright red flame on her white sweatshirt.
The memory of my wife goes up in flames while I take sips from our wedding present.
The warm liquid goes down my throat as the flashbacks from that night turn to ash.
Her expensive diamond ring shines perfectly next to my previous trophies on the shelf in front of me.
I write Ashley’s name on a blank index card and place it in the space meant for her.
Standing back, I look at the small collection in front of me.
I stroke my chin and map out the spaces on the shelf.
Strategically, I sit a digital recording of that night next to her outlandish wedding ring—the positives of having a wealthy lifestyle and security cameras.
The fear in her eyes catches my attention when I replay it over and over again on my laptop.
The sound of her voice makes my hair stand at attention .
I love listening to the change of pitch in her voice.
It was so fucking primal, and I can’t help the way it affects my body.
The way she looks when she knows that night may have been her last. Her expression sends a signal to my nerve endings.
The hair on my arms stand on end when I look closer into her big, blue eyes.
Baby, I could watch you over and over again.
The white gold band gives a nice contrast to the cloudy sandwich bag and the not-so-empty spaghetti jar on the shelf.
I wipe off the white diamonds on the fabric of my black sleeve.
I never really paid attention to the way it shone when it was on her hand.
The lack of attention we showed each other played a role in my lapse of clarity.
It really is a beautiful piece of jewelry.
The fluorescent light shines off the emerald cut, spotlighting the other pieces in my collection.
The fingers in the clear plastic bag are beginning to turn a darker shade of gray, accented with spots of dark green. I know I will have to eventually get rid of the evidence, but until then…
I grab the clear, plastic sandwich bag and slide it into the small pocket of my zip-up hoodie. At least I still have you. I pick up the jar and examine the eyes that move along with the alcohol, preserving what was inside.