fiction/not fiction

She waited until she heard his car turn down the drive before making any rash decisions. Once the sound of the car faded away, she set to work doing the things she had always wanted to do, always for the past eighteen years. She opened the blinds, wide, to let the sunlight in. (“And the heat,” he would say.) She cut a slice of apple pie she made for last night’s desert, plopped a large hunk of rice pudding on top, and ate it for breakfast. (“Dear, that is not even an acceptable dinner.”) And then she stretched out completely nude, on the sofa (“Dear, please! Dress yourself!”) and slept.

When she awoke, she knew what must be done, and decided to finally do it, with her entire heart, with her entire being, with herself for once.