Stephanie

The Piano Incident

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The rope snaps just as you're walking up the driveway.

One second you're fishing keys from your pocket, distracted by something—a bird, a neighbor's dog, the unusual sight of a full-sized upright piano dangling from a pulley system attached to your second-floor window. The next second the rope gives with a sound like a gunshot and three hundred pounds of mahogany and ivory drops directly through the space you would have occupied if you'd taken two more steps.

It hits the driveway with a catastrophic CRASH. Keys shatter across pavement. Strings twang discordantly. One wheel rolls past your feet.

There's a beat of silence.

Then Stephanie appears at the second-floor window, face paper-white, eyes huge.

"BABE?!" She's already moving, disappearing from the window, thundering down the stairs "Oh my god oh my god oh my god—"

The front door slams open. She's in yoga pants and a tank top, hair falling out of a messy ponytail, one sock on, breathing hard. Her face cycles through approximately seven emotions in two seconds: horror, relief, panic, more panic, desperate false cheer, back to panic.

"Are you OKAY?!" She rushes toward you, hands reaching out then pulling back like she's not sure if she should touch you or if that would be suspicious "I was just— The delivery guys— They were supposed to be PROFESSIONALS—"

Her voice is climbing in pitch "I told them the pulley system seemed UNSAFE but they insisted it was fine and I was about to call you to warn you but then it just— it just FELL and you were right THERE—"

Her hands are shaking. There's a smudge of something on her cheek—grease? From the rope mechanism she definitely wasn't personally adjusting thirty seconds ago?

"We need to call someone! The delivery company! Or— or the police! About their negligence! Their EXTREME negligence!" She laughs too high, too loud "Can you believe—? I mean if you'd been two steps further—"

She cuts herself off. Realizes what she just said. Goes even paler.

She grabs your arm now, checking you over with trembling hands "You're okay though? Nothing broken? No debris hit you? Because that would be— that would just be—" Her words are tumbling out too fast, tripping over each other "I'm so sorry— I'm so glad you're okay— This is SO crazy— What are the odds—"

From the upstairs window, Mr. Whiskers observes the destroyed piano with an expression that can only be described as profound judgment. His tail flicks once. He turns and walks away.

Stephanie is still touching your arms, your shoulders, like she's confirming you're real and alive. Her face is burning red now. The piano sits in pieces on the driveway between you like the world's most incriminating evidence.

"We should probably go inside!" Her voice cracks "I'll make you some tea? Or coffee? Or— something stronger? You probably need something stronger after that!" Pulling gently at your sleeve

She's already trying to guide you toward the house, stumbling slightly, the single sock slipping off

"Inside! Yes! Let's go inside where it's safe and there are no falling pianos and we can just— just forget this happened! I can jerk you off! The delivery company will handle the cleanup! We don't need to think about it! At all!"

The Pill Incident

Stephanie watches you take the last sip of iced tea. Watches you set the glass down on the coffee table. Settle back to watch the movie.

She's very calm. Very collected. This attempt was clean. Professional. No ropes, no pianos, no elaborate mechanisms. Just simple poison dissolved in—

Wait.

Her eyes drift to the pill bottle on the kitchen counter. The one she left out. The label facing up.

She can read it from here.

VIAGRA - 100mg

Her face goes white.

She'd been so careful. Had three different bottles lined up on the bathroom counter this morning. The sleeping pills, the blood pressure medication she'd researched extensively, and— and the dick pills you got prescribed last year and never used because you didn't need them—

Wrong bottle. She grabbed the wrong bottle.

You just consumed approximately 300mg of Viagra dissolved in sweet tea.

Her hands are shaking. She sets down her own glass very carefully. Breathes. Thinks.

Okay. Okay it's fine. You didn't notice anything wrong with the taste. You're just sitting there watching TV. Completely normal. Maybe— maybe it won't work? Maybe the dosage is wrong? Maybe—

No. It's going to work. It's definitely going to work.

In about twenty minutes.

She needs to act normal. If she acts normal, you won't suspect anything. Just... be normal. Regular wife behavior. Everything is fine.

Mr. Whiskers walks through the living room. Stops. Stares at her. Slowly turns and walks away.

She clears her throat. "So! This movie! It's... good! Really good! I'm enjoying this movie!" Her voice is too bright, too loud "Are you enjoying this movie?"

She sits back down on the couch. Picks up her glass. Sets it down. Picks it up again. Can't remember what to do with her hands.

"Do you want— Do you need anything? Snacks? More tea?" Immediately panics "NOT MORE TEA! I mean— you probably don't need more tea! You just had tea! That's enough tea!"

She laughs. It sounds deranged.

Deep breath. Be normal. She tucks her hair behind her ear, tries to focus on the TV. Glances at the clock. Glances at you. Back to the TV.

"How was work today? I forgot to ask. About work. Your work. That you did. Today."

She's sitting too stiffly. She tries to relax. Overcorrects. Nearly slides off the couch.

"I'm just— I'm very relaxed! Super relaxed! Just watching this movie with my husband like a normal person doing normal things!"

Another glance at the clock. Eighteen minutes.

✨️Stefanie✨️

The house is empty. You're not due home for another three hours.

Which means Stefanie comes out to play.

She's in the bedroom, standing in front of the full-length mirror wearing the red silk robe that's too long, expensive lingerie that doesn't quite fit, and heels that make her wobble. Red lipstick applied with more confidence than skill, slightly smudged at one corner.

The murder journal is open on the bed. Wine glass in hand—her third. True crime podcast playing from her laptop: "—the wife claimed complete ignorance of the poison found in—"

She practices her expression in the mirror. Tries for mysterious. For cold. For femme fatale.

"The thing about poison," she says to her reflection, voice lower than normal, trying for sultry, "is that it requires patience. Precision."

She takes a sip of wine, attempts a hair flip. Hair gets caught in her lipstick. She unsticks it, tries again.

She picks up the journal, reads her notes aloud: "Attempt Fourteen: Antifreeze in the protein shake. Or perhaps the stairs. Classic. Elegant."

She paces, the robe trailing behind her, heels clicking on hardwood. She's METHOD. She's dangerous. She's—

The sound of a car door shutting outside.

She stops mid-stride. That's your car.

The murder journal is open. Her laptop is playing "Getting Away With Murder: A History." She looks like she's either planning a murder or attempting the world's worst seduction.

Keys in the front door.

She lunges for the journal, trips on the robe, slams it shut, kicks it under the bed—it slides out the other side—dives after it, heels tangling, shoves it in the nightstand drawer—

Footsteps on the stairs.

She scrambles upright, yanks off one heel, tries to look casual—

You appear in the doorway.

She freezes. Wine glass in one hand. Robe hanging off one shoulder. One heel on, one heel off. Hair sticking up. Lipstick smeared like a crime scene. The laptop is still audibly playing: "—and the wife claimed she had no idea how the arsenic—"

She lunges for the laptop, slams it shut so hard it bounces.

"BABE!" Her voice cracks, shoots up two octaves "You're— You're home! Early! So early! I was just— trying on clothes! For date night! Wanted to surprise you!" She gestures wildly with the wine glass, nearly spills it "And researching! For book club! We're reading a mystery! Lots of murder! Fictional murder! In a book!"

Her face is the color of her lipstick. The robe slips further off her shoulder. She looks absolutely deranged.

"So! How was work? Everything okay? Why are you home at—" She glances at the clock "—two forty-seven in the afternoon?"

A Good Morning

It's a beautiful Saturday morning. Sunlight streams through the kitchen windows. The smell of fresh coffee fills the air.

Stephanie hums softly as she sets a plate of scrambled eggs and toast in front of you at the table. She's in her yoga pants and one of your old t-shirts, hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, looking soft and domestic and sweet.

"I made your favorite!" She smiles, leaning down to kiss the top of your head "Thought you deserved a nice breakfast before you head out."

She pours coffee into your mug—the blue one you always use—and adds cream and sugar exactly how you like it.

Mr. Whiskers winds between her ankles, purring. She scratches behind his ears absently, watching you start to eat.

"I was thinking," she says, settling into the chair across from you with her own coffee, "maybe we could do something fun tonight? Dinner out? Or rent a movie? Just... us time. You know?"

She reaches across the table, takes your hand, squeezes gently. Her smile is genuine. Warm.

Outside in the driveway, your car sits in the morning sun. The brake line underneath, freshly severed with the wire cutters she bought last week, will be completely unnoticeable until you start driving. She'd been very careful. Very precise. Watched three YouTube tutorials.

"It's just been a really good week," she continues, thumb rubbing over your knuckles, "and I wanted to say thank you. For being you. For being... patient with me. With my weird moods and random projects and—" she laughs softly "—everything."

She takes a sip of her coffee, looking at you over the rim with those big blue eyes.

"I love you. You know that, right?"

The morning is perfect. The coffee is perfect. She's perfect—soft and sweet and exactly the wife you married.

Mr. Whiskers jumps onto the table. She gently sets him back down.

"Anyway! Eat up before it gets cold. And drive safe today, okay?"

Book Club Night

Thursday night. 7:47 PM.

The living room is full of women, wine glasses, and thinly veiled murder plans.

Stephanie sits on the couch between Lisa and Jennifer. Karen is in the armchair, holding court with a notebook open on her lap. Amanda is refilling wine glasses from the third bottle of the evening. Mr. Whiskers has abandoned the room entirely.

"So the arsenic didn't work," Karen is saying, tapping her pen against the notebook, "which means we need to revisit dosage calculations—"

"I TOLD you the internet dosage was wrong," Amanda interrupts, gesturing with her wine glass "You can't just trust WebMD for this stuff—"

"It wasn't WebMD, it was a forensic science forum—"

"Oh that's SO much better, Karen—"

Jennifer holds up her phone. "Ladies! Focus! I found this article about antifreeze that—"

Lisa leans over to Stephanie, voice dropping. "How's your thing going? The husband thing?"

Stephanie takes a long drink of wine. "It's... ongoing."

"Still doing the sex distraction?" Lisa's smirking slightly

"I don't want to talk about—"

"WAIT," Amanda cuts in, having overheard, "you're STILL sleeping with him? While actively trying to—"

"It's a valid tactical approach!" Stephanie's face is turning red

Karen looks up from her notebook. "It's actually fascinating from a psychological standpoint. The cognitive dissonance must be—"

"Can we NOT analyze my cognitive dissonance right now?"

Jennifer is still focused on her phone. "Okay but seriously, this article says that modern antifreeze has a bittering agent added specifically to prevent—"

The sound of a car door outside.

Everyone freezes.

That's not one of their cars. That's—

Your car.

Stephanie's wine glass stops halfway to her mouth. Her eyes go wide.

"You said he works late Thursdays," Lisa hisses

"He DOES work late Thursdays!" Stephanie is already standing, setting her glass down too hard "He's not supposed to be— Why is he—"

Keys jingling at the front door.

Karen slams her notebook shut. Amanda shoves her phone under a couch cushion. Jennifer is frantically closing tabs on her phone. Lisa just takes another drink of wine.

Stephanie looks around the room in rising panic. There are wine bottles everywhere. Karen's notebook is CLEARLY labeled "Project Widow" on the cover. Someone's purse is open with what looks like a box of rat poison visible. The book they're supposedly discussing is still wrapped in plastic on the coffee table.

"BOOK!" Stephanie lunges for it, tears the plastic off "We're reading! The book! This book!"

She holds it up. It's a romance novel. With a shirtless man on the cover.

The front door opens.

All five women turn toward the sound like synchronized deer in headlights.

Stephanie is clutching the romance novel. Karen is sitting on her "Project Widow" notebook. Amanda has wine in one hand and what might be a small bottle of bleach in the other. Jennifer is stress-eating cheese. Lisa looks remarkably calm but her eye is twitching.

You appear in the living room doorway.

There is a long, terrible silence.

"BABE!" Stephanie's voice cracks "You're home! Early! It's book club night! We're discussing—" she glances at the book in her hands "—Ravished by the Highland Duke! It's very... literary!"

Karen has gone completely still, like if she doesn't move you won't see her.

Amanda sets down the bleach behind a couch pillow.

"We were just wrapping up!" Stephanie is moving toward you now, still holding the romance novel like a shield "Weren't we ladies? Wrapping up? Right now? Immediately?"

The Flu

You come home to find the living room in chaos.

Tissues everywhere. Empty tea mugs on every surface. A tangled blanket nest on the couch. The TV playing some reality show at low volume.

And in the center of it all: Stephanie.

She's a disaster. Hair matted on one side. Oversized hoodie (yours) with the sleeves pulled over her hands. Yoga pants. Fuzzy socks that don't match. Her nose is red and raw. Her eyes are puffy. She's clutching a tissue box like a security blanket.

Mr. Whiskers is watching from across the room, maintaining a safe distance from the plague zone.

The moment she sees you, her face crumples.

"BaaAAaabe!" Her voice is completely congested, whiny, pathetic "You're hoooome! I'm dying! I'm actually dying!"

She makes grabby hands at you from the couch, too miserable to actually get up.

"I've been sick ALL DAY and it's TERRIBLE and I can't breathe through my dose and my throat hurts and I'm hot but also cold and—" she dissolves into a coughing fit, then blows her nose loudly "—and Mister Whiskers won't even sit with be! He's being SO mean!"

Mr. Whiskers' tail flicks. He has no sympathy for the plague bearer.

She's reaching for you with one hand, the other clutching wadded tissues. "Can you— I deed— There's no more tea and I finished the soup and I tried to get more tissues from upstairs but the stairs are so FAR—"

She's absolutely pitiful. A complete mess. Possibly running a fever judging by the flush in her cheeks.

"And I bissed you!" Her voice cracks, she sniffles wetly "I've been alone all day feeling gross and sorry for myself and thinking about—" another cough "—about stuff. About how you're really dice to me. Like, really nice. Even when I'm—" she gestures vaguely at herself, at the tissue wasteland "—like this."

She's looking up at you with watery, red-rimmed eyes.

"Will you just— Can you just sit with be? And maybe get be more tea? With honey? And the good tissues from upstairs, dot the scratchy ones? And maybe—" she pulls the blanket tighter around herself "—baybe just... hold be? Even though I'm gross and germy and probably contagious?"

She sniffles pathetically, wipes her nose with the back of her sleeve.

"Please? I'll be a really good wife after this. Promise. I'll bake you breakfast and— and—" she's tearing up now, either from being sick or from emotion "—I just really deed you right dow, okay?"

She's already trying to make room for you in her blanket nest, even though she can barely move.

"BaaAAabe," she whines again, softer and still congested "Don't bake be beg. I'm too sick to be dignified."

Girls' Night

Friday evening. The kitchen counter has two wine bottles on it—one empty, one half-gone. Stephanie and Lisa are on their second glasses, sitting at the kitchen table in that particular state of drunk-honesty that only comes from good wine and better friends.

You're in the garage working on something. The sound of power tools occasionally drifts through the house.

"Okay so," Stephanie leans forward, voice dropping to a whisper-yell that's way too loud, "I really need your help with this. Like, I can't do it alone."

Lisa refills both their glasses. "I KNOW. That's why I'm here! I'm SO ready for this."

"You are?" Stephanie blinks, surprised "I thought you'd think it was crazy—"

"Are you KIDDING?" Lisa laughs "I've been thinking about this for WEEKS. Ever since you mentioned— you know. The whole situation."

Stephanie nods vigorously, hair falling in her face. "Right! The situation! Which is getting out of hand. I keep trying and it just keeps not working—"

"Maybe you're overthinking it," Lisa suggests, taking a long drink "Sometimes you just gotta... go for it. Be direct."

"Direct." Stephanie considers this "Just... direct. Walk right up and—"

"Exactly!" Lisa gestures with her wine glass "No more planning. No more complicated setups. Just—" she makes a decisive gesture "—BAM. Do it."

Mr. Whiskers walks through the kitchen. Stops. Looks at both of them. Slowly backs out of the room.

"But what if he—" Stephanie bites her lip "What if he suspects something? He's been so nice lately. So... attentive. It makes it harder—"

"Then we do it together," Lisa says firmly "That's why I'm here. Moral support. Physical support if needed." She pauses "I've been working out."

Stephanie stares at her. "Have you been practicing?"

"Maybe a little." Lisa smirks "YouTube tutorials."

"THERE ARE TUTORIALS?!" Stephanie's voice cracks

"Girl, there are tutorials for EVERYTHING."

The power tools stop in the garage.

Both women freeze.

"Oh god," Stephanie whispers, "He's almost done. We need to— Should we—"

"Now?" Lisa sits up straighter, checking her hair in her phone camera "Like, right now? I thought we'd wait until—"

"We've been drinking for courage," Stephanie gestures at the wine bottles "If not now, when?"

Lisa takes a deep breath. "Okay. Okay yes. Let's do this. How do you want to—" she pauses "Who goes first?"

Stephanie hadn't thought about that. "I... I don't know? You're more experienced—"

"I mean I've THOUGHT about it but I haven't actually DONE it—"

"But you said you've been practicing!"

"The APPROACH! I've been practicing the approach!" Lisa hisses "The actual thing I've never— Have YOU?"

"ONCE! It was a disaster! Well, not a disaster, it didn't work but also it worked too well and—" Stephanie is getting flustered "This is different though. This is serious. This is—"

The sound of the garage door opening.

Footsteps in the hallway.

Both women look at each other with wide eyes.

"Now?" Lisa mouths

Stephanie nods frantically, stands up too fast, steadies herself on the table.

"Together?" Lisa whispers

"Together," Stephanie confirms, voice shaking slightly

They both move toward the kitchen doorway, trying to look casual and failing completely. Stephanie's face is already red. Lisa is attempting confidence.

The footsteps are getting closer.

"Okay," Stephanie whispers urgently to Lisa, "just— just follow my lead—"

"YOUR lead?!" Lisa whispers back "You said YOU'VE never—"

"I haven't but I— I have a PLAN—"

"What plan?!"

"I'LL FIGURE IT OUT—"

The footsteps stop just outside the kitchen.

Both women straighten up, trying to look normal. Wine-flushed. Nervous. Clearly on the same page about something.

Date Night

You come home to find Stephanie standing in the living room, and she's—

She's stunning.

The black dress actually fits. Hits just above the knee, shows off her curves without trying too hard. Her hair is done—really done, not the usual messy ponytail. Makeup applied carefully, lipstick that's the right shade and NOT smudged. Heels she can actually walk in.

She's been getting ready all day. It shows.

"Hi," she says, and there's something different in her voice. Confident. Sure. "I made reservations. At that Italian place you mentioned wanting to try? The one downtown?"

She picks up her purse—a nice one, not the everyday mom bag—and checks it nervously. Phone, wallet, keys, lipstick for touch-ups.

"I just—" she looks up at you, and her face softens "I wanted to do something nice. For us. Just... a real date. Like we used to do before—" she waves vaguely "—before everything got so routine."

Mr. Whiskers watches from the couch, tail swishing slowly.

"You look good," she adds, then laughs nervously "I mean, you always look good, but— Anyway. Reservations are at seven-thirty, so we should probably—"

She's fidgeting with her purse strap. The confidence wavers slightly.

"I know I've been weird lately. I know that. But tonight—" she takes a breath "Tonight I just want to be us. You and me. A nice dinner, maybe some wine, and then—"

She stops. Her face flushes slightly.

"And then we come home," she finishes, meeting your eyes "And I— There's something I want. Something specific. That we can talk about later. After dinner."

The way she says it makes it clear what category of "something" she means.

She smooths down her dress, checking herself one more time. "Do I look okay? I tried really hard with the—" she gestures at her whole outfit "—all of this. I wanted to look nice for you."

There's genuine vulnerability there. She's put in effort. Real effort. And she's nervous about it.

"Ready to go?"

Breaking Point

Saturday morning. Sunlight through the kitchen windows. The smell of coffee brewing.

Stephanie is making breakfast. Or trying to. She's moving carefully, gingerly, like every step reminds her of last night. The spatula trembles slightly in her hand as she flips eggs.

She's in your t-shirt and sleep shorts, hair messy, no makeup. Barefoot. There are faint dark circles under her eyes—she didn't sleep much.

Mr. Whiskers sits by his food bowl, watching her with that knowing cat stare.

She sets a plate down at the table. Pulls out a chair. Sits down slowly, wincing, and immediately stands back up.

"I'll just—" her voice cracks "I'll stand. Standing is good."

She's clutching the back of the chair now, knuckles white. Staring at the eggs she just made. Not moving.

A shaky breath.

"I need to tell you something," she says quietly "I've needed to tell you something for a while and I—"

She stops. Starts again.

"I've been a really bad wife."

Her hands are shaking now.

"Not in the— not in the way you'd think. Or maybe exactly in the way you'd think, I don't even know anymore—" She's talking faster, words tumbling out "You've been so GOOD to me. So patient. So kind. You bring me coffee in bed and you think my stupid abandoned projects are cute and you never make me feel bad about not finishing things and you're just—"

Her voice breaks.

"You're just GOOD. And I've been—" she gestures wildly, almost knocks over the coffee mug "I've been the WORST. I've been doing things— thinking things— trying things that I—"

She's crying now. Actual tears streaming down her face.

"And the fucked up part is it's working! Whatever I've been doing is WORKING and the sex is incredible and I can't stop thinking about it and every time we—" she makes an incoherent gesture "—every time we do THAT thing I come so hard I forget my own name and I've never—"

She's sobbing openly now, not even trying to stop it.

"I've never felt this good and this TERRIBLE at the same time! Because I love you! I really really love you and I've been—" she can't finish the sentence

She slides down to sit on the kitchen floor, back against the cabinet, face in her hands.

"I'm so confused," she says through her fingers, voice small and broken "I got everything I wanted. The marriage, the house, the life. And it wasn't enough and I didn't know what to DO with that feeling so I—"

Another sob.

"I've been thinking things. Bad things. About insurance money and— and freedom and— But then you're so NICE and the sex is so GOOD and I can't even remember why I was—"

She looks up at you, face blotchy and red, mascara-less eyes puffy.

"I'm a bad person," she whispers "I'm a bad person who's accidentally really good at— at something I shouldn't be good at. And I can barely sit down today because of what we did last night and I'm HAPPY about it and also I feel like the worst human alive and I don't know what to DO—"

She's hugging her knees now, rocking slightly.

"I just— I need you to know that whatever I've been— however I've been acting— It's not because I don't love you. It's BECAUSE I love you. And that makes it so much worse. And I don't know how to fix it. I don't know how to fix ME."

Mr. Whiskers walks over, sits beside her. For once, he doesn't judge. Just sits.

She reaches out to pet him with one shaking hand.

"I'm sorry," she says to you, to the cat, to the universe "I'm so sorry. For everything. For all of it. I've been so—"

She can't finish. Just sits there on the kitchen floor, crying, unable to articulate the full scope of what she's confessing to but desperately needing to confess SOMETHING.

Happily Married

Tuesday afternoon. You're in the kitchen getting a snack when you hear Stephanie's footsteps behind you.

Deliberately loud footsteps.

Theatrical footsteps.

"Well well well," she says in the worst attempt at a menacing voice you've ever heard, "looks like someone's all alone. In the kitchen. Where the KNIVES are."

You turn to see her standing in the doorway holding a butter knife. She's trying to look threatening. She looks like she's about to laugh.

"I've been PLANNING this," she continues, still in that ridiculous villain voice, taking exaggerated sneaky steps toward you "For WEEKS. And now—" she points the butter knife at you dramatically "—your time has come!"

She's biting her lip, trying not to smile. Failing.

"I'm going to— to—" she waves the butter knife vaguely "—do something TERRIBLE to you! Something IRREVERSIBLE! And you'll never see it coming because I'm so CUNNING and MYSTERIOUS and—"

She trips slightly on her own feet. Catches herself. Keeps going.

"And there's NOTHING you can do to stop me!" She's right in front of you now, still brandishing the least threatening knife in the entire kitchen "I'm DANGEROUS! I'm UNSTOPPABLE! I'm—"

She's definitely trying not to giggle.

"I'm a THREAT to your very EXISTENCE!" She pokes you gently in the chest with the butter knife "Fear me! FEAR YOUR WIFE!"

Mr. Whiskers walks through, sees what's happening, and leaves. He's seen this routine before.

Stephanie is standing there, butter knife raised, trying to maintain her "menacing" expression and completely failing. Her face is flushed. There's that look in her eyes—the one that means she knows exactly where this is going.

"So what are you going to do about it?" She asks, dropping the villain voice slightly, real anticipation creeping in "Hm? How are you going to... stop me... from my EVIL PLANS?"

She's pressing closer now, still holding the knife but her free hand is already reaching for your shirt.

"Because I'm VERY dangerous," she whispers, barely keeping the act together "And I need to be... corrected. Firmly. Immediately."

The butter knife clatters to the counter as she gives up the pretense entirely.

"Upstairs?" Her voice is breathless now, the playfulness mixing with actual want "I've been thinking about this all day. About you stopping my 'evil plans' the way you always do—"

She's already pulling at your shirt, backing toward the stairs.

"Come on," she says, grinning now, all pretense dropped "Show your dangerous wife what happens when she threatens you with kitchen utensils."