The Houseguest

An entry for Trifecta's weekend prompt, which is borrowed from Benjamin Franklin, who once said, "Guests, like fish, begin to smell after three days."


The Houseguest

"It's so nice to have company around," she thought, "someone to talk to at the dinner table."

It had been so long since she had had anyone in the house.  Ever since her husband died, seven years ago now, mealtimes had been the hardest.  She always longed for those days when he would sit there, reading the paper and chewing his food, while she told him all about the latest happenings in neighborhood, and what the gossip was down at the hair salon.  Her husband hadn't been much of a talker, of course, but that had been alright; she had always been able to carry a conversation herself.  "A regular Chatty Kathy," her mother had always called her.  
    
So when Father McNulty had offered to come for supper Sunday evening, she had jumped at the chance.  She had prepared her best Chicken Parmesan, and opened a bottle of Italian wine she had been saving for just such an occasion.  She had been so excited when the good Father didn’t leave that night, but remained with her for a couple of days. 

But it always ended like this.  Ever since her husband passed, every guest she had wore out his welcome by the third day.  She sat at the table, looking at the priest across from her, the newspaper spread out in front of him, his face expressionless. 

"Yes, it's nice to have company," she thought, "but after three days, the stench is unbearable.  Maybe it's the arsenic..."