She hates him. If she could get rid of him—she has already tried everything. He knows every way there is to kill a man. He has protected himself.
Dinner must be ready before he gets home. Silva has to cook every day after coming back from work. Sometimes she whines, sometimes she does it out of fear. He has never abused her, but she has grown tired of him. Silva wants something new, something bigger, better—nothing like her bald, fat, hairy husband who goes by the horrid nickname of Pooh.
Pooh comes home shouting and wanting kisses from Silva. She feels nausea and wants to vomit as he gets too close to her mouth. Her nose gets irritated from his stench of sweat, cement, brick, and lime. He slides his fat fingers across her scalp and down her hair. She shivers with disgust as he shows love and puts on a pair of warm eyes.
"Dinner will be ready in thirty minutes. Take a shower. You stink, like always," She tells him solidly.
He laughs like a child, sits on a chair, and begins to dig out the laces of his shoes. "My tender love, your anger only makes me love you more," he tells her with bliss as she walks to the kitchen twisting her eyes.
Silva has a new plan. Over the years, she has tried to kill Pooh. The first time, she tried to put a bag on his head while he slept. That did not work because he woke up going at his face with his long, ugly, full-of-dirt nails. The second time, she gave him tea—not just any tea, but tea of apple seeds. She managed to knock him out, but apparently being a little bit overweight helped him survive. The third time, she placed small needles on his toothbrush—she was hoping he’d eat them so his insides would bleed him to death. That did not work. He almost never brushed his teeth, and the day he did, he dropped the toothbrush and opened a new one.
After those three times, she tried to kill him countless more—try twenty-six. She failed. Maybe his slowness helped him.
"What’s for dinner, then?" Pooh asks, entering the kitchen.
"Sticks of tuna wrapped in a soft tortilla made of potatoes, breaded chicken, and a new recipe. I made balls of meat, cooked with beans and onion to the taste," Silva answers. Her smile runs wide across her face. "I also have a lemon drink for you."
"Ah, no wonder I’m this fat. Look at all the gorgeous food."
Silva hollows her mouth, grabs a plate, and begins to place the food on it in perfect symmetry.
Pooh begins with the chicken. "Chicken is delicious."
Shut up and eat, you hog. Eat. Eat, I say! She thinks, dyeing her face with expressions.
There’s nothing left on Pooh’s plate except the balls of meat: tiny things, a bit bigger than a pea in size, glowing darker than chocolate.
"Can I get more balls of meat, honey?" he asks.
Silva gets up and brings him the pan. He looks at her with concern but only smiles. Before he knows it, he has eaten them all.
"Your drink honey," Silva says to him.
"I will…" he begins, but his face turns red. "My water!"
Silva gives him the lemon water with a smile.
"Oh, no! How could you think so? The water’s not poisoned! Those balls of meat: eat one and when they mix with the acid of your stomach, you’ll have one fourth of a cup of food inside you. Funny thing, isn’t it? How much did you eat? Almost three cups?"
He begins to shake, gasping for air, water. He wants to vomit but can’t. His stomach has grown larger. Food begins to come out of his mouth and nose.
He no longer breathes.
Silva gets up, laughs, and leaves.
Pooh shakes and falls off the chair and the food exits his body through every opening of his body except his ass.
And as he makes a sudden move, he dies with a POP, painting the white kitchen red with stripes of dark chocolate.
Lick! Lick! Yum! Yum!
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