I am your housewife.
We’ve been married for three months at this point.
You’re wearing a classless suit, feeling like a real man.
I, standing in a short dress, with an apron around my small waist, am baking blueberry muffins.
I’m gorgeous, or at least I have been told.
As I center a muffin on the plate, you sit on the couch, reading the daily paper.
I stroll over and hand you the muffin as I sit alongside you.
I gaze, mindlessly, at you.
You’re gorgeous, or at least by society standards.
“Honey,” I began as he shifts his attention to me.
“Would you still love me, be married to me, if I was a monster? Would you still love me if I destroyed us?”
I don’t know how those words came out of me, but he accepted them and leans over to give me a kiss on my pink lips.
“I chose you to be my wife for a reason.”
I blush and took the muffin away from him before he could eat it.
Later that night,
I throw away the muffins that were laced with mercury.
He cancels my appointment to be locked away in a mental institution.
I’m so glad he’s giving me another chance – giving us another chance.