I have a clean sex policy. Anyone getting on my bed must first sanitise themselves. This is a sacred place.

I don’t always get what I want, however. As the night unfolded, my wife decided that a kiss was in order before engaging in what she calls the “trivialities” of dental hygiene. Her hair a wild halo of messy curls that spoke of a long day and too many adventures (even though she just stayed home and fed the dogs). She crawled onto my bed, naked and unbothered by the lingering odor from her recent bathroom visit.

“You know what I am going to say.” My tone firm yet lighthearted.

“See the rubbish truck out there? It’s already 5am babe. We should be quick.”

“You’re hallucinating. Please shower.”

“You wish. Today is my birthday. I do what I want.”

“See the fruit knife there? You do know it’s lethal.”

“What is lethal?”

“My strength, with aid of the knife.” I waved it playfully to show off a magic trick.

“You’re funny. Haha.”

She called me funny. It seems like my wife is laughing at anything now. So desperate for a chuckle to validate her existence. SHE’s funny.

A rush of warmth flooded through me. Not sure whether that was passion or anger, or is there any real difference between the two. They’re all the same; her shallow mind can’t tell the difference between genuine wit and mere sarcasm. It’s amusing, really, how she thinks her laughter holds any weight.

I NEED her clean, scrubbed of all her quirks and nonsense. I OWN this bed. I BOUGHT this bed with my own money that I SAVED up from working hard. I even BUILT this bed myself (IKEA instructions were not easy). I also DROVE all the way across the city to pick up the mattress. She needs to know that. She thinks being funny makes her special, but all it does is make her ugly.

The knife, once a tool for my male humour, now loomed larger in my mind.

And I killed her. With ease, obviously.

“Babe, you are now thoroughly sanitised.” I blew her a kiss.

Now who’s going to clean the bedsheets? Fuck I shouldn’t have killed her.