My story should be told. It happened three years ago on a sunny spring Monday morning. I shall never forget it; how could I? I am, or rather I was, a knife salesman by trade. This allowed me plenty of time to travel, but the lonely existence of the road was far more enjoyable than the unmitigated level of wretchedness I suffered when I was at home with Mildred.

Mildred, please understand, was my wife of twenty-six years and I suppose I had loved her once. Yet as I strive to recollect the emotion, my search is in vain. All that I can bring to mind is her incessant and constant nagging that gradually etched away my confidence. Each derogative utterance chipped recklessly away at my increasingly fragile sense of self, but as I awoke upon that spring morning, I knew that things were about to change. For on this beautiful spring morning the events that were about to unfurl had been meticulously considered for months…

We awoke that morning as we always did, and her mouth began moving the moment her eyes opened. The insults quickly began streaming out as I made her breakfast; I always made her breakfast, and served it to her in bed. As she examined the tray in front of her the usual bombardment of condemnation flooded.

"Eggs too runny. . .Coffee too strong. . .Idiot. . .and Useless."

This was the typical routine, yet this morning my mood was so highly elevated that I cheerfully withstood the verbal pummeling. At precisely 8:30 a.m. I was meticulously packing my fine German knives in a large stainless steel case for a presentation later that day. I had in my possession a second case, and this one I placed on the bed, empty.

Moments later I heard my wife singing some wretched show tune in the shower, something from The Sound of Music, I think, but with her it was difficult to tell. I calmly picked up the shiny butcher boning knife from my collection, which is a strong, long narrow knife, and as its name implies, is used to sever through bones.

Perfect.

As I approached the bathroom door, I heard her shrieking out her pathetic rendition of Julie Andrews and the sound of the gushing water. Holding my breath, I opened the door and entered. As I watched her flabby silhouette wobbling behind the floral shower curtain, I could not help but shudder. A moment later, and with a speed that surprised even me, I had thrown back the curtain and plunged the knife with exacting precision into the base of her neck. The shower water continued to gush relentlessly, turning the water into the most beautiful hue of red. Her death was almost instantaneous and relatively painless, I believe, and within a few moments she collapsed onto the floor of the bathtub. I watched fascinated as the blood continued to flow. This is why I had decided upon the shower, so that the blood would be drained away, and after about twenty minutes not a trace of red was left to be seen.