The suitcase was made from the dried skin of a cactus plant.
It looked like alligator leather but was in fact the vegan option, or at least as vegan as she chose to be.
If vegan meant no harm to animals or plant, then the suitcase failed all the criteria. But within her own definition of the word it passed.
She didn’t eat eggs, but she ate nuts.
Her sandals were made from plastic.
Pink.
She placed the suitcase onto the night table; it was day time and she hadn’t slept yet so to her it was just a table.
At the side of the bed.
Which also appeared to be vegan, depending on your attitude to cotton.
Hers was lenient.
The suitcase had clips and a zip so she un-clicked and un-zipped and opened it.
She stood there for a while, just looking.
Remembering.
The head was still wrapped in silver foil, it hadn’t, luckily, started to smell.
Thinking.
Killing her husband wasn’t really easy to process as a vegan, even a lenient one.
Waiting.
Because she wasn’t sure what to do next.
Sleep would probably not come easy.
Dreams would be vivid.
Was she happy?
She didn’t know, but she was hungry.
Would it be improper to leave him here and go out to look for something to eat?
Was that in bad taste?
Everything would be a whole lot easier easier if she was a carnivore.
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