It was a fantabulous day. Or rather, there was great promise that it would be. And, that was thrilling. Exhilirating.
The flowers were proof of that. They weren’t real and that was perfect. Just perfect. An anniversary shouldn’t be marred by something that quickly dies. She never understood that. But today represented promise and hope. It was eight years today. She had survived the osso buco and now it was time for shrimp. And, a negligible bit of arsenic. The roulette and table were set.