She'd started to suspect that he'd been poisoning her meals. Sleep was rare and thin. When she returned after work, dinner was steaming on the stove, but he was gone. Usually, he'd be whistling (that song she couldn't place). She dropped her briefcase, tied her hair back, inspected the stew with a wooden spoon. Then she heard it. His tune, faintly. She only saw his eyes at first, blinking there against the wallpaper. It was all so confusing. Then she realized what he had done: he was nude, elaborately painted like the wall, motionless. She dropped the spoon. The stew was boiling over.