Based on a short story written by a dear friend:

She sat on the edge of the bed and realized she was craving a cigarette. Not that she really knew what it would feel like to desire it, having never smoked, but there were certain times in her life when she’d had the distinct feeling that if she were, in fact, a smoker, that she would be lighting one up: the day she left her well paying job to risk starting her own business, the moment after she closed the deal on her house, and now, watching the pool of blood spread out from under the matted black hair lying on the ground before her. The desire stemmed not so much from the desire to calm her nerves but rather as a compliment to the immense sense of satisfaction she felt at those times.

A glance down at the massive lump of flesh, the belly fat rolling out the sides, the legs splayed, arms arching around the head, making him look like the grotesque lovechild of a sumo wrestler and a ballerina.

She imagined inhaling the sweet smoke deeply into her lungs and nudged him with the toe of her white patent leather pumps. Jiggle and settle. She did it again, harder. Once again, jiggle and settle. She nodded, satisfied, and imagined exhaling the smoke, watching it curl lazily towards the motionless ceiling fan.

For some reason she thought she’d hear sirens about now; wasn’t that always the way it worked? Other than the ordinary rise and fall of the traffic outside, she heard nothing. No bolt of lightning from God, no sudden appearance of her mother, no cops circling the house with weapons drawn. And so it was then; revenge was not played out under the lights of the big stage but quietly executed in the wings.

She tossed the remainder of her smouldering cigarette on his waxy back and disappeared like smoke out the door.