I put tulips under the pillows and set fire to the house

I thought it would be poetic - even if nobody would ever know. As if the smell of tulips would rage with the fire and burn with the memories of all the gifts he gave me and all the things he wanted me to be - that I wasn't.

But there was no aroma of tulips with the fire. They wilted in seconds the way plots of revenge sound stupid when spoken out loud.

With every affair, I thought I could erase him - bury him under new lovers and new memories. But he wouldn't go! He became even more present, like the lovers were embodying different aspects of him. Death by fire seemed to be the only way.

And so the fantasy became a reality, became a bonafide plot.

The timing was perfect and unsuspecting. We would eat, we would drink, we would talk like there was a tomorrow. And then as they rested with their bellies full and their minds at ease, I would light his tulips, I would light them all.

[So this was a writing exercise in which you pick three sentences several minutes after one another and write for five minutes before you pick a new sentence/writing prompt. The sentences/writing prompts were as follows:
- I put tulips under all the pillows and then set fire to the house
- I cheated on my spouse and it wasn't the first time
- The time he invited his mother to come to dinner]