Overread at Table 2: Short Story for New Years Eve

Bill had never let Meg go to the fireworks display.

They had lived in this house in Houston for fifteen years and each New Years he had demanded that they watch it from the back yard.  "It's got the best view," he always told her.

Then, usually, he would sit there drinking beer until he slithered off to bed around 1 am, and that was the few good moments, the times when he didn't grab her arm, knock her in the teeth, punch her in the belly, or force her into sex on the stone cold floor.

This year, the moment that the fireworks display started, something exploded inside Meg as well.

She pulled out the Glock from his bedside night stand and walked to the back porch and shot him.
The bullet ripped through his neck.

Bill shot up from his chair, hands around his throat.  Wide eyed, he looked at her as though he had never truly seen her before.  He staggered a few feet and fell into the pool.

Meg's hand dropped to her side.  The gun dropped to the ground beside her.  She stared at Bill's body, slowly leaking blood into the water, as the reflections from the fireworks display made the ripples in the pool look as though all the stars of the night sky had showered down upon them.