Two Years Ago
Rachel heard the noise from the party as she stepped off the elevator. She’d forgotten the bi-monthly event had been switched from Saturday to Friday, due to Saturday being Christmas Eve. This party was special, not because of the holiday, but because Francisco—his real name Frank—had sold three paintings for a six-figure payday. She opened the door to their condo and felt her shoulders relax. A smile traversed her face. She hung her coat on the fake copper hat tree and began unbuttoning her blouse. She would soon forget her crappy day at work.

One Year Ago
Rachel stepped off the elevator, forgetting the day of the bi-monthly party had been switched, due to the regular date conflicting with Christmas Eve. The sounds of the revelers in her condo were more than she could handle tonight. Work had been a bitch, and no amount of partying would change that. She slipped quietly into the foyer, hung her coat on the fake copper hat tree, and tiptoed to the master bedroom, almost knocking Francisco’s bowling trophy—from high school—off the fireplace mantel. She put on her noise-cancelling headphones and queued up Ravel’s “Pavane pour une infante défunte.” She closed her eyes but couldn’t sleep, wondering when Francisco-—his real name Frank—would finally realize there wasn’t enough money for the rent, food, his expensive taste in cars, and these juvenile parties. If only he’d start painting again.

Today
Rachel hovered over Francisco—his real name Frank—his head resting on the carpet. He’d promised to cease his garish lifestyle after they married. She’d arrived home a day early from her business trip to Los Angeles—before Francisco had finished cleaning up from last night’s party. Now the blood puddle, his head, and the Merlot stain on the plush, grey carpet formed a perfect Venn Diagram. Rachel continued to stare at what might have made a perfect painting for Francisco. Finally, she dropped the trophy on the floor, skipped the eulogy, and walked out of their condo for the last time.