Betty spoke into the mirror. “It’s been months since he’s moved. Months. Mark has been playing that game for over nine hours. I’ve decided to take things into my own hands.”
Betty strode down the basement stairs and un-plugged the television set, fully expecting a wild slew of explicit language to burst from Mark’s mouth. He remained calm and looked into her eyes. “I’m going to kill you, you know.” Though she had never before heard such a thing from Mark, she easily remained composed.
“I had always assumed as much,” she responded. “I imagine you’ll do so after the mortgage has been fully paid, though. It’d be a pity to rot out the rest of your life in a place without wifi.”
Betty snipped the end of the television cable with her nicest stainless-steel garden shears and ascended from the basement holding the three-pronged plug. She filled the dishwasher, but did not start the washing cycle. She wanted to enjoy the thick, angry silence hanging in the air of their home. Betty placed her wedding band in an empty soap dish, along with the cherished television plug. She drank a bitter cup of black coffee while leaning against their imported granite island, the polished silver drawer knob painfully digging into the hip of her designer jeans.