She'd taken every cooking course available over the years. Chinese, Italian, French; you name it she'd perfected it. Now here she sat in her immaculate kitchen where she'd prepared hundreds of mouth-watering meals, and she felt like dying.

Her insides felt like a knotted rag. She twisted her fingers together as she stood over the sink. The cold bleak morning matched her mood, and two self-pitying tears slid down her cheeks. The sheets of rain were flattening her pansies and border plants; this rain hadn't eased all day. With a strangled sob she slammed a hand against the side of the sink, then she shook those fingers as they began to sting.
Scalding tears fell harder and she was swamped by a wave of bitterness as the floodgates opened. Tight-lipped, she ran a hand through her already untidy hair and went to slump on a chair. It couldn't be true ! After thirty years of marriage he had left her!
How dare he! A big shudder racked her as she glanced about the room. This was every housewife's dream kitchen. It had been remodeled only six months ago to suit her needs. She spent most of her day in this space; her cooking had always been a source of pride and satisfaction to her.
Well, not always. Lifting her apron to wipe at her eyes she forced a smile as she recalled her first fumbling attempts at producing culinary delights. Like every starry-eyed bride she'd longed to satisfy her new husband. And everyone knew the way to a man's heart was through his stomach.
The meat ball fiasco had been the funniest of all. His mother was the finest meat ball and pie maker in the world. How many times had she been reminded of that fact. Determined to become just as good a cook she'd spent endless hours with that good woman in an effort to emulate her style.
His mother had perfected the exact proportion of sausage meat and minced beef, bread crumbs and onions and without fail her meat balls were always tender, mouth watering and scrumptious.
When she'd tried to copy the method her meat balls had—for some reason—shrunk as soon as they'd hit the pan. With a sense of satisfaction mixed with apprehension she'd placed the plate of misshapen blobs in front of her expectant husband. Fortunately he'd always liked plenty of gravy and so she'd been able to camouflage them. But their hardness couldn't be concealed, for when he tried vainly to cut into one it shot off his plate and rolled across the table.
His voice had risen with anger and her tears of frustration had fallen and it had developed into an almighty row where insults were thrown willy-nilly. He'd gone off in a great temper and she'd cleared the table of the debris, but decided to keep the meat ball as a reminder.
For years the relic had been kept in a jar and it had become a great talking point at later dinner parties where theories were devised as to why it never went moldy. Like a lump of concrete it retained its shape.
They moved from their first little two roomed flat into a house of their own, then into a larger one, and the ball always went too. Through arguments and happy times it sat on the shelf overlooking them.
She'd taken every cooking course available over the years. Chinese, Italian, French; you name it she'd perfected it. Now here she sat in her immaculate kitchen where she'd prepared hundreds of mouth-watering meals, and she felt like dying.
With no outward sign of regret he'd boldly announced out of the blue that he was leaving her. The man was a fool. What a joke. What did a man of his years have to offer a flighty thing half his age?
"You'll miss my cooking," she'd yelled after him as a parting shot, and to her utter humiliation he'd come back with, "There's more to life than food."
"That's what you think." She knew his stomach had always ruled his life.
"You've become obsessed by food, woman," he'd informed her. "Maria can't even cook. And do you know what? I don't care."
That had been the most hurtful thing of all. His fancy woman couldn't cook, and he didn't care.
She got up and took down the meat ball, gazing at it for a long while before putting on her coat.
The street was deserted. He would be coming out of work soon. She stood in the bus shelter until she saw him coming along the road and when he stopped by his car, reaching into his pocket to find his keys, she called his name.
He glanced up and grimaced as he saw her. She aimed the meat ball at his head and it struck him on the temple. A brief look of shock just about had time to flit across his face before he slumped to the ground, a trickle of blood oozing from the small cut. The rain washed it away instantly. She bent to take a quick look at him, picked up the missile, and walked off, her hands deep in her pockets. A grim smile of satisfaction twisted her mouth.