It was a boy baby cooing in swaddling clothes, a baby who had just been born to the butcher's servant across the alley, the maid Isobella who trailed behind, beaming. He declined supper, but took wine. The ring's yours, and you're mine. Auntie has taken the nails out of my palms, but the scars will always be there. He took about five minutes. I don’t want to know. The sun was setting when she carried the metal garbage can to the curb with their remains in it, where they sat underneath the stale chocolate cake that Sheila had thrown away and a pile of mildewy lettuce. You will be—my wife.
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