She leans down close, her hair a perfumed curtain, her breath a breeze lighting up every single one of my nerve endings. Her lips stroke against my ear and she whispers, “How ‘bout this?” Then, to my surprise, she jerks upright, flips up the hem of her dress, and withdraws a glistening knife from a leather holster strapped to her upper thigh. Quick as a flash, she presses the tip of the blade gently against my chest. “Dead,” she pronounces solemnly. “And your gravestone will read, Should’ve been more afraid of his wife.’”
