Short Short Story

Jill sat in her grass-papered dining nook and sipped a Cafe Suisse. She made no move to adjust the gingham curtains to filter out the beam of sunlight that was hitting her squarely in the face. She heard her son crying in the nursery down the hall but made no move to comfort him. She was oblivious to the jays in the tree outside the kitchen, the lawnmower across the street and to the nasal sounds of a neighbor calling her three-year-old in from the yard.

That morning Jill chewed off three of her husband’s fingers as he slept in their California King bed. She discarded the fingers in the trash and took the time to neatly bandage the stubs.

“Mornin’ honey, hope I didn’t wake you coming in last night. Another late one with clients.”

He grabbed for a cup and watched in dull amazement as it slid through his hand and shattered on the tile floor below. He looked up at his wife.

“My God, what have you done!”

Jill sat calmly toying with a locket around her neck as she regarded her husband with a cool expression.

“You were with that girl again,” she said plainly.

“But my fingers. What did you do with my fingers?”

“They’re in the garbage, at the bottom of a Gristede's bag.”

He grabbed for the door; his hand slid off the knob.

“The garbage man left an hour ago.”

He stepped back, stared at Jill, looked at his hand and thought of other doors he’d never open. Fear, confusion and hatred passed swiftly over his features. He paused, unable to move. He didn’t know what to do.

He was stumped.