Ice

She shouldn’t be trying to look pretty for him, but she is. It’s nine o’clock at night, and she’s in front of the mirror, picking a strand of hair off the shoulder of her black cashmere. The sweater makes her look slimmer because she’s gotten a bit heavy, her hair thinner, and she can feel them out there, the six cans of soup she’d stashed three hours ago in the ice machine outside the store. There was no frozen lock to deal with, but the lid was stuck to its frame, and she had to yank on it before it swung open. She was sure her husband, Dicky, had heard her then and would come running outside, maybe even with his stupid pistol, but he didn’t and part of her wished he had. Lies are so much easier to tell when no one’s paying attention.