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My wife is like a kitten when she sleeps. Of course I could never tell her such a thing, she would kill me. She loves to snuggle and bury herself right down under the duvet. She snores softly, almost silently that I have to hold my breath to hear her. Sometimes she’ll unconsciously mumble nonsense, like grocery items or oddly specific names of weapons. But most of the time it’s never in the same language.
I looked towards the foot of the bed when I heard an actual meow. A big charcoal mess of fur and whiskers was resting awfully close to V’s ankles. He’d poked his head through the kitchen window one day and I’d practically leapt at him worried she’d try to decapitate him. She had that gleam in her eye as she watched him eat our leftover chow mein, like those lions in documentaries. He was a big fluffy ball of fur, with a chewed up ear and one seeing eye. She called him Eve. It was a risk owning a pet with a psychopath but then again so was marrying one.
“Eve, you have a deathwish” I whispered quickly pulling him towards me.
I can’t stop staring at her. I’m basically a schoolgirl with a crush. She’s smiling ever so slightly, that ‘don’t trust me, baby’ smile I knew far too well. Of course she’s smiling! This is the same woman who had winked when she said ‘til death do us part’ during our wedding vows.
The first few times she stayed over I didn’t sleep for fear I wouldn’t wake up. I couldn’t function properly for weeks, putting orange juice in my coffee, falling asleep on the tube and spacing out during assassin meetings. I’d pretended to be asleep of course when she’d brought me breakfast in bed and a pot of La Mer moisturising cream. She laughed and told me she wouldn’t do it while I was sleeping. “Too easy” she’d said in her incredibly sexy accent. “I’d want to see the life drain from your beautiful eyes.” She’d smiled sweetly and then carried on eating her pancakes.
There’s a kitchen knife taped to the bed frame, a pair of scissors and a hammer under the beside table. If anything were to happen I’d just have to fling myself off the bed and grab a weapon. It’s a precaution, not that I could ever—
She’s slipped up and told me about some of the jobs she’s done. Jobs, she calls them. Like she has a regular nine to five that she commutes to, like she grabs a breakfast bagel and a latte and gets the Bakerloo line into the city.
If she were to kill me I’d want to go quick, like BANG right between the eyes. I wonder how she’d do it. I hope she’d go easy on me because she loves me. At least she says she does, but she could be lying. V always has a tell so I know when she’s lying, when she starts to talk.
That’s the beauty of this marriage. It could end any second. But she knows that if it came down to it I wouldn’t pull the trigger. She will forever have the upper hand.