"No, it is not."
"Isn't it true, in fact, that your husband worked for Foxy Lady Cosmetics, in their manufacturing plant, and that he would often come home with lipstick on his clothes?"
"Yes, that's right."
"And so there was really nothing out of the ordinary when he came home on the night of the twenty-seventh with some lipstick on his shirt, was there? In point of fact, it was something that had happened perhaps hundreds of times before. Is that correct?"
"Hundreds of times? Yes, I would say that's probably about right."
"And, of all those hundreds of other times that Mr. Macauley came home from a long, hard day of work at his manufacturing job with the Foxy Lady Cosmetics company, did you ever pick up a gun and shoot him simply because he had some lipstick on his collar?"
"On his collar? No, of course not. It was the lipstick on his underpants that pissed me off."
Michael Pelc lives near a coast somewhere. When he's not out measuring the rise
of the sea level, he stays inside and writes very short stories, some of which
have appeared in A Twist of Noir, MicroHorror, and Thrillers, Killers and