The Unsigned Indenture
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Summary
I watched my husband's awards ceremony from the kitchen, the thud of my cleaver against pork ribs keeping a grim rhythm.
The host asked him who he was most grateful for at this moment.
He adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses, his voice smooth and cultured. "I want to thank my late wife, Evelyn. It was she who taught me the true soul of literature."
My hand faltered, the cleaver nearly slicing my finger.
Bloody water from the ribs splattered onto my apron, like a rotted crimson flower.
Eight years.
