Wouldn’t it be nice to remember things as you wished they happened, but not as the actually did? Well, one of the small joys of being a tortured writer, is that I can rewrite history to my liking and visit it at will.

I’m not usually one to bide my time. I like carpe diem and all that jazz. Dessert first. Explosive. But that’s not always wise, as I’ve come to learn.

I found out about the indiscretion through his own stupidity. Isn’t that how it goes? These cocky men, underestimating the intuition of the woman they’ve been sharing a life with. They also tend to underestimate our cunning vengeance, thinking we are much to sweet to react with such murderous contempt.

And so, after I talked to my attorney and realized that, yet again, it had not served me well to be a self-sufficient woman for so long. Because I had always had a steady income, and the lodgings originated in my family, and we had no children, I would get little to nothing from the man who had so easily taken my trust and reputation and totally wrecked the illusion I had of our marriage.

I decided I would get it all, anyway. And the sooner the better, because no doubt he was squandering every dime on that crack whore.

It was coming up on my birthday, and of course I preferred to celebrate out of town. But I didn’t want to ruin any of my favorite places for future travels. So I chose a quaint little German-esque town about three hours away that everybody just goes on and on about. He likes all things German, so let’s see about making this his final resting spot.

As I researched the town, I found that nearby was a famous gorge. Well, that would be even easier. Imagine my delight in learning about the suspension bridge that spans the gorge, 80′ above some wonderfully sharp rocks. Failing that, there were some 300 steps into the basin that he may easily miscalculate.

Tallulah, indeed. Or was that Tawanda? No matter.

But it didn’t work out like I wanted to. I was weak from lack of sleep due to planning, and I hadn’t been eating much the past few days, either, as I questioned what his motive had been in the first place. And, alas, the park was crowded and the bridge had many safety features in place. Very unfortunate. I would have to endure him for a few more hours, at least. I wasn’t too keen on a crowd, as I was sure I would be unable to hide my smile as he plummeted to his death. It was a private matter. Problems between a man and wife should be kept behind closed doors, at all costs. I hadn’t even told my best friend of my plans. She would have wanted in on the bloodshed. I would carry it out alone.

So I was labeling this trip as a way to rekindle our passion, in addition to it falling on my birthday. I sold it to him that way, as well.

We rolled into town (slowly, as traffic was a nightmare, even for a girl who has lived in a tourist trap her whole life), pointing out quaint buildings and places that looked like fun.

Just kidding. He alternately played on his phone and snored. I kept my eyes narrowed and added it to the list of reasons I would be glad to be shut of him.

I checked us into the hotel while he sat in my new car texting his mistress. Plenty of room at the Baymont Inn in Georgia….bring your alibis, ready for his lies…he can check out any time he likes, but he will never leave. I was pleased to see there was a pool. Not ideal, as it was looked on from one whole side of the hotel but it might work in a pinch.

We took a little walk around town. Not hand in hand, as we would have typically traveled, but he put in his earbuds and tried to look cool in his black Under Armor shirt that highlighted his frame. I fantasized about pushing him into the placid river. Or getting run over by a truck. I pointed out a few spots serving traditional German fare that he might like for (his last) supper. He seemed totally uninterested, and I wasn’t eager to partake in schnitzel, myself. There was a place right next door to the hotel that promised to be a happening little joint with free-flowing booze. Excellent.

We got cleaned up for dinner, had a beer on the balcony, watched the sun set over the river, and pretended with each other that things were fine. I applied a final coat of lipstick, and out the door we went.

The bar was more crowded than I had expected to find it, but that played in well to my little scheme just fine. Instead of talking to me, my dearly beloved husband struck up conversation with the couples seated nearest to us at the bar. I was at my most charming, not daring to raise suspicion, keeping my hand on his leg or gently touching his arm in practiced devotion ever so often. I was the damn portrait of love and affection, if I do say so myself, even going so far as to brag on his powerful arm muscles and unrelated drinking ability to his new friends. The night was going exactly as I had hoped. He was preening under the new attention from the strangers, flexing both his brawn and brains, while demonstrating how much Jack Daniels one southern male can put away in a few hours time.

I mentally licked my lips and rubbed my hands together. Very nice, very nice….

It was almost too easy. He leaned heavily on me the short walk back to our hotel. He weaved through the lobby, in full view of other vacationers and the front desk staff, and sagged against the elevator wall as we rode to the top floor.

He slumped in bed, and halfheartedly surfed through channels. Then his gaze fell on me, as I set out two glasses and produced a bottle of Jameson. After all, good girls are made of sugar and spice, Irish girls are made of Jamesons on ice.

Note red hair, fair skin, and freckles. He always thought I had more German heritage. He was wrong about that, too.

“Where’d you get that?” He asked, eyes sparking.

“Gittin’ place on Got Street,” I quipped. He narrowed his eyes. “The liquor store, where do ya think?” I sneered.

“No need to be a smartass, Anna.” That tone. It set my teeth on edge.

I wanted to brain him with the bottle, but that wouldn’t do. But he was going to find out why this would be his final drink. I wouldn’t let him slip into his unconsciousness thinking he got away with it. Oh no. So I went to the ice machine and filled the bucket, as normal as could be. I hadn’t even broken a sweat. I had no second thoughts. I simply acted out the scene.

By the time I made it back to the room, he was already gently snoring. I plunked some ice cubes into the square glasses and poured a generous helping over them. I considered it, then poured to the top. He would drink whatever was in his glass, just like he’d eat whatever was on his plate.

I zip tied his feet first. Then I took off my shirt and pants and flopped down on the bed, pretending not to notice he’d been asleep. He stirred and looked at me, holding his glass. He took it from me and drank it down, just as I knew he would. I slung my leg over his waist, straddling his torso. He smiled. Cocky as ever, in his final moments. I leaned over, giving him his final view of my ample cleavage, and drew his arms up over his head, where I secured them with a real pair of steel handcuffs, then threaded the scarf through the chain and over to the bedposts. And then I smiled.

“I hope you’ve enjoyed your little getaway,” I purred close to his ear.

“Yeah…it’s cool.”

“Too bad it’s the closest you’ll ever get to The Fatherland.”

I raised up so I could look in his ice blue eyes. Those eyes once held a undeniable potent attraction to me. Now they just looked cold. He raised his eyebrows.

“What should I tell your mother to do with your body?”

The eyes got even icier, and fear began to creep in, just at the corners.

“What are you talking about, Anna?” It was barely a hiss. He was very, very angry with me. No going back now. I’d be no match for those steroid induced muscles.

I began to trace his lips with my finger. “You got too arrogant, just like you always do. I know about your whore, I know what she likes and I know what she’s ultimately after. And I know what you like–what you’ve always liked. You faked it as long as you could, you can’t help what you’re comfortable with….you’re trash, and if I gave you the opportunity to live through this, you would always be trash hunting more filth to keep you satisfied. But I won’t allow it.”

At this point he lunged for me but he was quite secure in my web. I smiled, just baring my teeth slightly.

“It’s a shame….you were a good husband. And as far as anyone will ever know, that’s how you’ll be remembered. But not by me.” I rolled my head, relishing the popping. “The wife always knows. Here, have another drink.” I poured a little in the side of his mouth. And the stupid motherfucker DRANK. He really didn’t think I would kill him.

I sighed heavily. “I do wonder about your insurance policy. I hope it’s enough to see to your funeral. And of course I’ll need a new dress…and hat.” I put my finger to my mouth and rolled my eyes in dramatic fashion. “And of course new heels. Then I think I’d like to take a trip. Somewhere tropical”

I let him have another pull from the bottle. He was losing interest, unbelievably enough. His eyes fluttered a bit. I slapped him right across his cheating mouth that had fed me lies for months now. His eyes cleared. “Dammit, Anna–“

“Don’t you even. I get the last say. This was supposed to be my happy ever after. I loved you, I doted on you, I did everything I could to keep you happy. Instead I would up with a shitty hand because I married a black-hearted fool. I know you like it hot. Drink up, motherfucker.” And with that I turned the bottle straight up. And I laughed as he choked, gurgling, eyes bulging.

It didn’t even take the rest of the bottle. He spewed me with the atrocious whisky and then he began to vomit. I sat on his chest till it was over. I watched the clock. Seven minutes ticked by with no movement from his body. I got up slowly. Slowly…..I told myself. I took stock of the scene. Bottle on its side in bed, what was left slowly draining out. I hurriedly removed the bindings before they could leave marks that could be determined by the Forensics team that they were there at the time of death. I was still under the ten minute mark, should be fine. I left them there, though. No reason to hide a little fun bondage. I looked at myself in the mirror. I’d like to say there was naught a hair out of place, but let’s face it, it’s me, I always have a hair out of place, homicide or not. I didn’t want to take a shower but I did need to wipe the vomit from my face and chest. Shit. Why hadn’t I thought about clothes? Think….if it had been a typical (non-murderous) weekend, we would have came back, maybe had a drink, had sex, and he would have passed out. I would have been suspicious enough to check his phone and then been over the top irate and devastated, and fled in the night, leaving him in this stupid little tourist trap, passed out and none the wiser til about six a.m.

“Hurry”, my mind said.

So I hurried, collecting the majority of my things, leaving my uncomfortable shoes and toiletries in the shower. I put my fingerprints all over his phone, swiping and typing in his code. I opened all his media, scrolling and reading one last time. I’d done the right thing. I couldn’t live with the scandal. This way there would be no fallout. I’d just have to act like a grieving widow for a year or two. I could do that. Child’s play.

Looking back one last time at my cheating husband, I let the door slam behind me and I forced myself to cry hysterically. I even went to my knees for good measure. I made my way to the elevator and out to my car, where I pretended to regain momentary control in case anybody was watching. I was sure they’d be pulling security footage, so I made myself lean my head back and wail one good time. I rooted around for Kleenex.

And then I put it in drive.

Of course there was a toxicology report. All it found was enough alcohol in his bloodstream to kill a water buffalo. Clearly, he died from asphyxiation (fancy word for saying he choked on his own vomit). The cameras in the hallway, elevator, and parking lot showed a clearly distraught wife fleeing her philandering husband.

The good thing about being a good girl your whole life is you can get away with murder.

When you’ve worked at the same job for fifteen years, front and center of all variances of wealth and poverty, and you do it all with a bubbly attitude and genuine smile…when you actively serve on a library board for a decade…when you’ve had spotless credit and a decent driving record your entire adult life…when everyone knows without a doubt how much you love your husband….

Nobody looks twice at foul play. It’s just a damn shame that he was cheating and died in such a humiliating way. Best to protect the grieving widow from the media. Just a damn shame. They could have probably worked it out of he hadn’t drank his fool self to death. Damn shame. Sweet girl, you can just tell.