Picture Perfect

         She is home when he arrives from work. She is always home. He takes time getting out of the car, noticing a smudge on the drivers' side window, and buffing it out quickly with his shirt sleeve. Once inside the door of the house, he is careful, taking his time to untie his shoelaces all the way on each shoe before gently slipping them off and placing them on the mat by the door. He walks into the kitchen, deliberately hanging his keys on the hook by the stove because that is where those keys belong. He opens the refrigerator, grabbing a beer, Stella Artois, because it evokes a sense of class and precision. He fishes his standard-issue knife out of his pocket, pries off the cap, and takes a sip.

         She hears him from their bedroom upstairs. She knows what he is doing. Today is no different from any other day; it's his routine, his ritual. Everything the same, standard, everyday: perfect. Isn't this what she wanted? She waits, hearing him move through the house opening cupboards, checking the dishwasher, the kitchen sink, the bathroom. She smells her hands--bleach. She hears him coming up the stairs and tries to collect herself as he enters the room. She glances up only for a second. He barely catches her eye, before she quickly averts her attention to the basket of laundry she is folding- the laundry he has also taken a sudden interest in. Oh God, the shirts that he wears under his uniform. She didn't iron them. He moves towards her quickly, knocking the basket on the floor, and snatching a shirt out of her hands. She flees the room and down the stairs. He's right on her heels.