by Peter Holm-Jensen
They started arguing. Their house became an evil place, a dreaded thing to return to each evening: the ill will waiting for them like a big black dog snarling at being left alone all day. Then he began blacking out whole days with drink, tearing them out of his memory. The usual story, I remember saying to someone, of love and related crimes. Except this one went far too far in its infernal logic. We read about how he did it in the paper the next day, what he used.
Peter Holm-Jensen, whose full catalog is here, is an émigré living in the UK, where he writes Notes from a Room.