The puttanesca was starting to get cold. The candlesticks on the table flickered to and fro, casting an angry light over the gloomy room, and illuminating the feast spread on the table.
There were two plates piled high with the pasta, a basket of garlic bread, and a splatter of red sauce on the side opposite where Jim was sitting. His eyes were wide, unblinking, and fixated on the figure slumped across the chair across from him. It was a woman, her head slumped over, hair falling onto the table and woven into the strands of pasta. Her blood, spilled just a few moments before, was readily mixing with the food in front of her motionless body.
Jim swallowed. This wasn’t supposed to happen today, but his urges had won out in the end. The puttanesca was perfect, but it had been missing a few ingredients.
He lifted his fork from the plate, studying his wife’s sauce covered fingers once more. “Might as well make the most of it.” He shrugged and took a bite.