The delicate gold watch glittered on her thin wrist as she prepared breakfast, just like she did every morning for the last 30 years. He always wanted toast, lightly buttered and only two pieces which he would sit in the lounge watching the morning news before going to work, leaving his plate balanced on the arm of the sofa. Always on the arm of the sofa, never being able to make that journey back to the kitchen. He could only visit there once in the morning as part of his slothful ritual of awakening. Never mind his dutifully brought cup of tea which would never find a coaster and leave a sweetened circle on the table. The table that got polished every day, not by him of course. He was probably allergic to it. He seemed allergic to taking his plate into the kitchen but partial to scattering crumbs over the carpet, hiding them under cushion and down the recesses of the sofa.
Today was no different, plate fetched, cup held, tv switched on to assail the day with wit, news, and weather. He plunged himself into the sofa, wiggling his great backside into its defined space as he splashed his hot beverage over the tabletop. Her eye twitched. Toast was shoved into his open gob, teeth gnashed as he watched transfixed then laughed spraying chewed up burnt bread over the carpet and screen.
“EE that was funny, that MP doesn’t know his arse from his elbow. Sorry for making a mess love. Have to go to work.”
Her eye twitched more; knife drawn from the kitchen block. More mess. Always more mess. The blade came down, sinking into his back. In. Out. Repeat 20 times.
“Jesus Bill. Even when your dead you’re still messy” she muttered as the black bags were taped around his body and the wooden laminate mopped.