Chapter 4

He splashed on the cologne, sickening amounts of it, and stared at his reflection in the mirror. Behind him, on the bed, his wife watched him. She saw what he saw:

A middle-aged man the wrong side of 40, fair, tall, lean and trim from his evenings in the CCI pool and at the gym, a little silver in the hair adding a touch of distinction. Not a very handsome man, but attractive in his own way. A certain masculine ruggedness. Women could find this creature desirable, no question of it.

But to her, just looking at him made her feel like puking. Because she saw the beast beneath the skin. Everything about him, the foppish way he bent his wrist as he brushed his hair back, the way he pursed his lips to whistle some old Dev Anand tune, the stench of the cologne he used, the quantity of it, the powder he patted onto his armpits. She hated every little habit, every gesture, every expression. Repulsive. Disgusting. Unbearable.

She knew where he was going now. To that big launch party tonight. Sin City. He had blasted forth a tirade about the erosion of moral values and lack of spiritual strength. After he'd raped her. He always lectured after he raped her. Yes, raped. Because she could never think of what he did to her as sex. Let along love-making. It was rape, pure and simple: brutal, uninvited, undesired, without the slightest trace of tenderness, affection, consideration.