She hated him now but that was all right. She just wanted his dry, dead ashes sifting through her expensively tanned and manicured fingers. Oh sure, he'd paid all the bills for her expensive lifestyle in bundles of crisp, unmarked C-notes. Or at least his grain company had, but all good things must come to an end. She knew things were gonna get real hot real quick.

He could have smelled the gasoline. He should have seen that gold-plated lighter glisten in the moonlight - the very one he had engraved with their initials.  He would have, if he hadn't been so preoccupied with his latest bit of fluff from the office in the hay-strewn loft of that dark, dry, old barn.

77 El Deora
Oblique Americana: Wheels on Fire