Tomato Soup by Simha Sagar Raja Manoor

Heads, I add cyanide to my husband’s soup. Tails, I add salt.

I toss the coin and it shows tails.

Fuck.

“Darling,” he wails from the living room. “I am starving.”

Yeah, I bet.

He had come home, late as usual with his usual crap of an excuse: “Year-ending darling, books of accounts need to be audited, you know.”

What he had been in the process of auditing, I know very well. That whore’s body. In his cabin. When everybody has gone home, he tallies her tits. Bastard.

I stir the salt into the tomatoes, add water to the saucepan and raise the flame to bring the soup to boil. I hear him switch on the television and he shouts as if I am fucking deaf: “I think I will have a bath first.”

That’s right, you prick, wash the slut’s scent off your body. Perfume, that by all rights, should have been mine. Perfume that costs 4k for a few bloody milliliters.

I toss the coin and it is tails again.