A Little Revenge

The glass fell from his hand and shattered. He felt, muted and slow, the floor of the kitchen rise gently to meet him.

And as the bots started to reassemble his DNA, elation filled him, not unlike what he’d heard drowning victims experience: a moment of panic, then surrender, a blissful relaxation as he began to translate from one state to another.

His wife came swimming into his fading vision. Her concerned face, her words murmured and fumbling through his graying consciousness.

Then her face changed, smiled bitterly, and he heard her say, distinct and unmistakable, “You don’t hit women, you son-of-a-bitch.”