The Perfect Anniversary

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She wore her wedding saree, red embellished with intricate golden thread work. Her thick hair was freshly washed and shampooed, she had let it open, the water from them dripping onto her naked shoulders; each drop kissing her flawless skin. The delectable butter chicken, his favorite, simmered on the stove; tonight had to be perfect. She dabbed a few drops of Dior Midnight Poison on her neck, the fragrance enveloping her like a cocoon. 

She toyed with the tube of lipstick before discarding it on her dressing table. No, mustn't go overboard and anyway he had always hated seeing her with makeup on. Downstairs, the bell rang and with a  final sweeping look in the mirror, she hurried to greet the one for whom she had always made the extra effort to please.

"Happy anniversary, Darling," her husband gave her the perfunctory kiss her on her left cheek as she opened the door. 

Making his way to the bathroom to take a shower, he left his work shirt on the floor. How she hated this habit of his, yet she never made a retort. Tonight must be perfect. Their sixth wedding anniversary. 

As she picked up the creased shirt, she pretended not to notice the lipstick stain on the inside of its collar. The shirt, like him smelled of sweat, a sickly perfume and betrayal. In the back drawer of her cupboard, the vial of deadly poison waited. Tasteless and odorless. This was just the missing ingredient she needed. She didn't want a mess on her hands; she liked things clean and neat. 

Tonight, after all, had to be nothing short of perfect.