She’d started to suspect that he’d been poisoning her meals. Sleep was rare and thin. When she
returned after work, dinner was steam- ing on the stove, but he was gone. Usually, he’d be whistling
(that song she couldn’t place). She dropped her briefcase, tied her hair back, inspected the stew with a
wooden spoon. Then she heard it. His tune, faintly. She only saw his eyes at first, blinking there against
the wallpaper. It was all so confusing. Then she realized what he had done: he was nude, elaborately
painted like the wall, motionless. She dropped the spoon. The stew was boiling over.
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