I was raised to be hopelessly practical.  At least about death.

As a solution–it would mean killing him first, and killing myself for certain, afterwards.

The car is in the garage. Its tailpipe.

That way, I would never have to lay hands on him, who is so beautiful.

I couldn’t possibly ever lay hands on him.

Not even to pick him up and carry him out of the house into the night.

Our garage is so old, and wooden, and hopelessly leaky.

It would never hold enough exhaust long enough.