Becky was finally getting her divorce. She'd wanted it for years but it would always seem that she was the 'bad guy' if she divorced him. She had even tried to drive him to divorce her.

He never did. She came to believe that he, Martin, actually believed in and took his vows seriously. That seemed good, but not after 10 or so years of being married.

So, finally she was going to file and deal with whatever came up. Meanwhile she stuck the container of stuff she had in her purse, into the refrigerator. She thought about putting a label on it telling Martin not to eat it.

She wasn't exactly sure what it was...food or some experimental concoction from one of her catty friends who thought she deserved to be 'free'. The friend had said, well she outlandishly claimed, that if anyone ate it they might transform ...she thought it was, into a dog...or something.

Martin, despite his degrees and qualifications, for all his professional climbing and his lengthy resumé, was not the brightest man about the kitchen. This was reason #6 that Becky had wanted a divorce, always cooking no matter if she was sick, or working, on her birthday. Even their past three anniversaries, Martin hadn't even bothered to book a restaurant, or even DoorDash some cheap pizza. Becky had resolved, at a certain point, that if he came home from work late enough that his dinner had been put in the fridge, and he could not figure out the two buttons on the microwave to warm the thing up, he would have to eat it cold.

This was the same logic that preceded Becky's decision to leave the unnamed plastic container exactly where it was, and Martin's later bewildered call from the kitchen hours later, hunched over a half full bowl of the stuff, tie trailing into the thick, green liquid.

"Rebecca?" He could barely fit his mouth around the word as he gagged. "What is this?"

Becky didn't look up from her phone as she scrolled the daily news, leant against the doorway like it was nothing. "Pea soup."

Martin shook his head and crossed the room. "Smell this. Does it smell good to you?" He held out a spoonful of the stuff in question, which Becky lifted her nose to with all the care of a tired house cat.

She shrugged. "Throw it away if it seems off, then," she said, before retreating back to her room, or the guest bedroom, as it formerly had been, before the papers and before the feeling of sharing skin with him made something inside her twist like a jellied eel.

She was roused only an hour later by the sudden urge to pee, and made her way to the shared bathroom at the foot of the stairs, lock turned. She knocked.

"Martin? Are you in there?"

"Yeah--I--Becky, I think that soup gave me food poisoning," he croaked out, and as if on cue, a clattering sound of limbs and bottles fell from behind the door.

"Martin? Did you fall?"

There was a silence at that, and it stretched on long enough to worry Becky. She may not have been able to stand the man anymore but she definitely wouldn't wish death on him, or even concussion. Becky knocked again, raising her red-nailed fist to the door, hand poised over the handle to break the thing down.

And then, from the other side of the door, came a soft bark.