She knew how she got here.

She drove or walked in the night.  It was a form of movement.   Both are good.
The back door was open.  Either that or she had the key.   She forgot.    It doesn’t matter.   But, she was here, standing on the discount wooden kitchen floor.  Drip.  Drip.  Drip.

Muted television sounds and dim flickering lights infiltrated through the cracks around the door.   Using the counter as a guide, she made her way to the light, eyes closed, breathing in the yet-to-disapparate smell of spaghetti sauce.

Cheap sauce.  It was too salty, too thin, and too processed to be anything else but cheap.

She understood.

He was alone right now.    His affair and marriage had ended.  He had no one but himself to care for.   Not even a dog.   Just him.  Cheap sauce.

She supposed that she should be impressed that used the stove, but that feeling wasn’t in her.

Very little feeling was.

The television became louder as she drew near.    She listened.    No commercials.   Binge-watching.    Something British.

Realization dawned on her.   He was indulging in Downtown Abbey.   His guilty silent sin.
The door opens slowly with just barely a creak.  Drip. Drip. Drip.

He’s laying on the couch, eyes fixed on the floating images in chiffon.

She silently creeps and stands behind him.   Television light played off his glasses and on his chestnut hair.

His life was in her hands.    She could kill him, she thought, and quietly leave.   She could kiss him.  She could make his life a living hell.

A small smile flickered across her lips as she considered the possibilities, but no.

This lying, cheating, cheap sauce, scum of a man wasn’t worth her time.
He wasn’t worth the effort to kill.

She just knew that she could.   If she wanted.