Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater

Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater,
Had a wife and could not keep her,
He put her in a pumpkin shell,
And there he kept her, very well.

Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater,
Had another, and didn't love her,
Peter learned to read and spell,
And then he loved her very well.

The rain poured down, with no signs of letting up. All the better to
wash away your tears my dear. What a bitter thought, but then, Bethany
had been having a lot of bitter thoughts lately. She sat at the window,
lithe form clad in black silk, morning colors. She mourned herself, her
death. A slow, painful death of the spirit. Black pearls around her
neck, cool against her throat, Bethany lifted a long fingered hand to
them, and felt their smooth, perfect shape between her fingers. She
leaned her head against the window, looking out over the dreary fields
of pumpkin, hemmed in my tall mountains, covered in mist. The night was
dark, the hour late, and Bethany was glad of this.

Once upon a time, she had loved Peter La Calabaza, she really did. She
had loved to run her fingers through his silky hair, and listen to his
aspirations, how he wanted to change the way America ate pumpkin,
revolutionize it. Lies. His smile, and the love in his eyes was as
cheap and generic as the products he packaged and sold. Nothing new,
nothing special abut him, or his company. Peter Pumpkin, his gallant
alter ego, hero of the pumpkin patch, rotting on the vine.

Bethany got up from the window seat and moved to sit next to the
fireplace, curling up in the chair like a child. Her eyes roamed around
the little cottage. At one time she had loved it. A large open ground
floor, with a large, beautiful fireplace, and a little kitchen and
pantry off to the side. A loft bedroom, and a state of the art
bathroom, all for her. With barred windows, and barred chimneys to go
with it. Barred to keep her in, not to keep prowlers out. Bethany
laughed coldly. And pantries full of pumpkin. Peter Pumpkin's Prime
Pumpkin Preserve, Peter Pumpkin's Homemade Pumpkin Pie, Peter Pumpkin's
Pumpkin Bread, Peter Pumpkin's Cold Pumpkin-Squash Soup. Peter wanted
only his products in the house, day after day of nothing but the
disgusting casualties of Peter's obsession.

Bethany slipped the pearls off her neck, watching the strand slip
through her fingers, so hard, so cold. She had a brief, flickering
thought, an escape from this prison, use his own gift as a garrote, and
run out the door, quick as she can, before he can do anything.

She let the pearls slip to the floor. It would never work. Peter's
reflexes were simply too fast. He would have her pinned to the ground
before she could even slip it around his neck.

But Beth-Her name was BETHANY, not Beth, I love you, you know
that-yeah, me and that woman who wears J'Dior perfume and Coral Sunset
lipstick.

Bethany remembered the day she tried to leave him, the day she told him
she wanted a divorce. It was the day after they had moved into this
brand-new loft cottage, shaped just like a pumpkin, and even painted
orange. She had told him that night and he just looked at her, his eyes
wide and dark, as sad as an abandoned puppy. She had turned and left
that very night with an overnight bag in hand.

She came back to get the rest of her things, and found that he had put
bars on all the windows. She had misgivings when she saw that, she
should've left then, she knew it. But, she did not. She walked through
the door, to find Peter slumped in a chair, wearing the same pressed
pants and silk shirt as the night before though now greatly wrinkled.
Peter begged her to stay, to give him a second chance. She refused. He
hit her over the head with a lamp, knocking her out, and when she came
to, she was locked securely inside.

A high heel crunched down on a pearl firmly, crushing it to powder. All
the rich gifts in the world couldn't make her love him again. Another
pearl became dust, and she ground the dust into his hardwood floors,
each pearl, one by one.

She had three pearls left to go, when she heard the key turn in the
lock. She looked up, heel still posed over one of the unlucky three,
and watched as Peter came in, wet from the rain. His eyes caught hers
and flickered away quickly. He left the door hanging wide open, and
pulled out his car keys, tossing them at her feet.

"I've thought about it. It isn't fair." He said, his voice low, but
unsteady, frightened. Bethany picked up on that with a smirk. "What is
love, if it is forced?" Bethany picked up the keys, and tossed them in
the air, caught them , and tossed them again, her eyes watching her the
way a cat watches a mouse. Peter shifted his weight from one foot to
the other. Bethany chuckled,

"Dearest Peter, what changed your mind? Surely not humanity?" Peter
didn't answer. Bethany swept near him, a breath away, and she could see
him flinch. She also saw the edge of paper sticking out of his jacket
pocket. She snatched it, and swept away, while Peter froze, eyes wide
with horror, like a rabbit illuminated by the headlights of an oncoming
car.

Bethany laughed, this time, a deep, rich resonant sound, and waved the
damp paper in front of nose, as if daring him to take it back,

"Subpoena? For bigamy? That is stupid even for you. I knew there was
someone. I didn't know you married her. I suppose you hoped that if you
released me, I would just thank my fortune and disappear? I am not that
convenient." There was scorn in her voice and Bethany sighed, then
frisked him for his wallet, took the cash, and the credit card, and
said,

"Peter, I will be staying in a Hotel in town. I fully intend to be at
the trial." Then she clicked out the door on her heels, taking a deep
breath and the cool night air. Peter didn't move, not for a long time.
Yes. He had hoped that she would just leave, become scarce. Now, he
would lose his business, and his freedom, with both of them going after
him. He put his head in his hands and cried softly.