The carpet cleaner drifted in a powdery fall, becoming first pink, then bright red as it soaked up what the greedy bath towels hadn't. They sat in a heap on a plastic bag in the corner, sated and sodden.
Alan poked at the powder with the toe of his shoe. "Christ, who'd have thought the old bitch'd have this much blood left in her?"
Grabbing the vacuum, he ran it over the spot again and again. His dearly departed had purchased the large and ungainly machine along with the thousands of square feet of hideous, avocado carpeting that covered nearly every room in the house in a sea of baby-shit green. She may have had the interior-decorating sense of an Elvis, but he had to admit that she'd kept the house obsessively clean.
That was--had been--his wife. A real avocado carpet, "Rosie," trips to the outlet mall, sterilize the house, bingo-playing, home-permed, National Enquirer gal. And he hated everything about her, but particularly the carpet and the vacuum she'd bought to clean it.
He'd hated her more, though.
So, she'd gone first.
The spot where Brenda had hit the ground and stayed, roughly three feet in diameter, was still pinkish, defying the efforts of both powder and vacuum.
He pounded the remainder of the cleaning product from the canister. The powder turned the sickening color of a pureed frog on contact with the green carpet, though not becoming quite as red this time.
Smiling, he popped the lid on the fourth can.
)
