The Tap End

The Tap End When Richard and Fiona Mansell married everyone agreed that
they were totally compatible. Each a stickler for routine, little
adaptation would be necessary for each of them to combine lifestyles.
Each rose at 6.30, went to work, listened to Radio 4 each evening and
liked to be in bed by 10 o'clock. "More Shepherd's Pie?" asked Fiona.
It was Monday. "More stew?" Tuesday. "The pork chop is nice."
Wednesday. And if anyone accused them of being boring they would shrug
and say, "We like it this way." And after fifteen years of marriage it
seemed they did. Sunday April 6th began as usual, with their
once-a-week breakfast of bacon and eggs before Church. Back home they
drank a cup of tea. Then Fiona prepared lunch whilst Richard tended the
garden until it was time to eat. By 2.30 Fiona had washed up and
Richard had dried, leaving them free to snooze in their usual chairs on
either side of the fireplace. At 4.30 Fiona prepared cheese salad for
tea and when they had eaten it they settled in their armchairs to
listen to the radio. "Time for our bath," announced Richard at 6.30.
Fiona forced a smile. Ever since their wedding Richard had insisted
that they share their weekly bath to conserve energy. "It's not as
though we're dirty," he had said. Fiona had agreed. Now, fifteen years
later she watched Richard run the bath and gritted her teeth, as usual,
refraining from asking the question that had burned on her lips since
the second time they had bathed together. "Isn't it your turn to have
the tap end?" They undressed silently, climbed in and faced each other.
Fiona watched with resentment as he lay back against the round end of
the tub and she shivered as a drip from the cold tap travelled down her
spine. Richard closed his eyes as he revelled in the sensuous pleasure
of warm water against his flesh. Tears filled Fiona's eyes and her
resentment simmered. It had been fifteen years since she had been able
to lie back in the bath without jabbing her spine on the cold, sharp
taps. "It wasn't fair." But the routine was set now and she knew that
she could never change it, for change was alien to their relationship.
As usual she rose first and after drying herself she put on her
dressing gown and went downstairs to make the cocoa. As she searched
for a spoon in the cutlery drawer her eyes settled on something else
and without thinking her fingers closed around it. A moment later she
returned to the bathroom, where Richard, with his back to her, was
drying himself. Her hand rose and fell once and she felt warm liquid
trickle from her wrist to her elbow. Her eyes widened with delight as
Richard sank to the floor, a kitchen knife protruding from his back.
Next Sunday she'd lie in the bath with her feet at the tap end.