She was always angry when any woman
looked him over, checked him out.

Possessive and jealous, short-
tempered and mean-spirited,
she was a *****. Always poking at
him, second-guessing him, her
bold dark eyes glaring at the
least little slight. And her
tongue knew no limits. She
would dress him down right there
in front of anyone, ridiculing
him, embarrassing him, making
him an obvious target of her fury.

She would wait for him at night,
sitting by the window, her sleepy
cat nestled on her lap, an aromatic
stew or soup or casserole wafting
through the tidy city row house
they shared. He knew if he lived
there much longer he'd end up
with his hands wrapped around her
throat or maybe he'd just slip
some antifreeze in her drink or
he could just walk in and
announce that he finally found
the one true love of his life.

No ****** knives, no smoking guns,
just words aimed directly at the heart.