It wasn’t big stuff he took. At most, a sticker or a single packet of yeast or, once at the hardware store, the very tip of a faucet on display. He only did on good days. When he felt brave and in charge of his life. When he wanted to reward himself. Otherwise, the urge wasn’t there. It was silly, but he had been doing it for as long as he could remember. He kept the loot in an old lunchbox on a shelf in the garage. Then one day, his wife noticed, and he had to kill her.
Updated: May 14, 2020