Janet placed her napkin on the table and went out into the hall. Nobody seemed to notice her leaving. Her nails click-clacked as she steadied herself on the glass-topped occasional table and she took a deep breath.
They were always the same, these dinner parties. The women acting like wallpaper while the men farted and slapped each other on the back and talked about golf and football and other women. Why did she let Richard drag her to these things?
Why did she let Richard do anything?
She stumbled down the hall in her high heels, ridiculous heels, uncomfortable and just the wrong shade of purple. Richard had chosen them, too.
The kitchen door was open and the Formica counter was laid with desserts. Janet stood in the doorway and stared. There were little single-portion crème brûlée sitting in pools of caramel, a blueberry pie with a latticed pastry top, a yellow chiffon pie, and in the middle, a huge white snowball cake with cherries shining like drops of blood on porcelain tiles. It was perfect. The kitchen was perfect too. Immaculate. Everything was perfect. Right out of a God-damned catalogue.
The sound of Richard laughing came through the wall from the dining room, and, as if it was all a dream, Janet pushed her scarlet fingernails deep into the snowball cake. The icing oozed between her fingers and without meaning to, she let out a soft purr of exquisite pleasure, quite unlike any sound she had ever made before.
Later, Richard would put down his belt and ask her why — “Why, Janet? For God’s sake! What were you thinking?”— but folded up on the living room floor with her arms shielding her face, she couldn’t tell him. She wasn’t sure she had been thinking anything at all.
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Tom Cornfoot is a writer, designer, and illustrator. He’s spent over 30 years carefully developing a style of handwriting that’s almost illegible, doodling, and never getting around to learning to play the guitar.
These stories are plucked from the air, like everything else. There’s no consistent link or thread, unless of course you find one, in which case, it was entirely planned that way.
Words and pictures © 2025 Tom Cornfoot
Tom Cornfoot! That was so unexpectedly dark! You answered your question, though, "Why did she let Richard do anything?" Where did this story come from? It's only four o'clock, but I am going for my bottle of scotch... yikes!
I wasn't expecting that twist at the end. Maybe she should try sinking her nails into Richard's face. Maybe that's what she imagined she was doing when she slid them into the cake. She should quit calling him Richard and just call him Dick.