minutes later he was drier and no longer blushing. The cappuccino tasted like barium. He overtipped.
He walked all the way home, fifty minutes of putting one foot in front of the other, thinking, then brooding, then fuming.
When he used his keys to unlock the deadbolts he found the security chain latch engaged. He smiled to himself. Then he kicked the door brutally just to the right of the knob, snapping the chain and tearing the screws from the lintel like pimentos blowing free of a thrown hors d'oeuvre.
She would be expecting him to tarry guiltily by the bedroom door. They could exchange more meaningful silences, more useless apologies, and proceed with the erosion of their lives. One more day paid up in pain and wear.
Jonathan did not stop at the threshold.
He grabbed her by the throat, gripping her neck with the same familiarity her pussy had enclosed his cock. He was remembering a time when, dinner completed, they would be making love by now, laughing, wrestling, sharing. She thrashed and made a noise but he was stronger and she was badly positioned.
Then her frightened eyes saw what was in his hand. He had brought it from the kitchen.
He had never struck Amanda and did not strike her now. She yelled for him to take his hands off. Then she focused on the weird light in his eyes and shut up for her own good, like a trapped cat resigned to an oncoming beating.
Jonathan knew what she was thinking: Go ahead. Do your worst. You'll pay later. In guilt.
Almost perfunctorily, he asked her just who the hell she thought she was. Holding her tight to the pillows by the throat, he emptied a one and a half liter jug of Rhine wine, ice cold, all over her. It gushed from the bottle, foaming from her mouth and nostrils and soaking her hair.
Amanda tried to scream.
This was what it had finally come to. Making her feel pain in response to the tiny agonies she thoughtlessly manufactured and dispatched to sting him every time they spoke. She did it automatically, almost without malice. Jonathan's response, now, was automatic in the same way. Robotic. Almost inhuman. Someone else was at work here, using Jonathan's skin as an envelope.
He made her hurt because he could no longer make her feel pleasure. Any emotional response was better than the arid vacuum of stress and the slow poison of their decomposing love.
She sucked huge, husking breath in watery gulps, sobbing and quivering on the bed. Jonathan left the wine jug on the dresser intentionally. She would be forced to touch the awful thing, feel the memories of her humiliation, if only to start the jug's journey to the trash dumpster.
He had lost control at last. No doubts here. A big door had slammed and now they were on opposite sides of it. It was time to leave. Only an imbecile - or an even bigger masochist -would have needed a brighter GO light.
In concept, his act was dazzling. Never again would Amanda be able to look at a bottle of vino without remembering what she had brought down upon herself. But the effect had reversed on Jonathan unexpectedly. Now wine would remind him endlessly of what he had done to her.
Beer reminded him he was no longer drinking wine.
***
'… maybe a third of the suburbs to the east and south of Chicago are what they call dry townships, can you swallow that? One place you can buy liquor; two blocks away it's against the law. The local heat has beefed up the open container violations, all that kinda horse piss. The public issue is 'decency.' The bottom line is cash flow. Y'know - guilt, wrongness is the stalking horse. The paper tiger. What they've really got big boners for is-'
'Tribute,' said Jonathan. His throat had unlocked. 'Your money in their pockets.'
'Rightee-o, Felix. But I'd never seen a dry township until I landed in this corner of the world.'
'What
He walked all the way home, fifty minutes of putting one foot in front of the other, thinking, then brooding, then fuming.
When he used his keys to unlock the deadbolts he found the security chain latch engaged. He smiled to himself. Then he kicked the door brutally just to the right of the knob, snapping the chain and tearing the screws from the lintel like pimentos blowing free of a thrown hors d'oeuvre.
She would be expecting him to tarry guiltily by the bedroom door. They could exchange more meaningful silences, more useless apologies, and proceed with the erosion of their lives. One more day paid up in pain and wear.
Jonathan did not stop at the threshold.
He grabbed her by the throat, gripping her neck with the same familiarity her pussy had enclosed his cock. He was remembering a time when, dinner completed, they would be making love by now, laughing, wrestling, sharing. She thrashed and made a noise but he was stronger and she was badly positioned.
Then her frightened eyes saw what was in his hand. He had brought it from the kitchen.
He had never struck Amanda and did not strike her now. She yelled for him to take his hands off. Then she focused on the weird light in his eyes and shut up for her own good, like a trapped cat resigned to an oncoming beating.
Jonathan knew what she was thinking: Go ahead. Do your worst. You'll pay later. In guilt.
Almost perfunctorily, he asked her just who the hell she thought she was. Holding her tight to the pillows by the throat, he emptied a one and a half liter jug of Rhine wine, ice cold, all over her. It gushed from the bottle, foaming from her mouth and nostrils and soaking her hair.
Amanda tried to scream.
This was what it had finally come to. Making her feel pain in response to the tiny agonies she thoughtlessly manufactured and dispatched to sting him every time they spoke. She did it automatically, almost without malice. Jonathan's response, now, was automatic in the same way. Robotic. Almost inhuman. Someone else was at work here, using Jonathan's skin as an envelope.
He made her hurt because he could no longer make her feel pleasure. Any emotional response was better than the arid vacuum of stress and the slow poison of their decomposing love.
She sucked huge, husking breath in watery gulps, sobbing and quivering on the bed. Jonathan left the wine jug on the dresser intentionally. She would be forced to touch the awful thing, feel the memories of her humiliation, if only to start the jug's journey to the trash dumpster.
He had lost control at last. No doubts here. A big door had slammed and now they were on opposite sides of it. It was time to leave. Only an imbecile - or an even bigger masochist -would have needed a brighter GO light.
In concept, his act was dazzling. Never again would Amanda be able to look at a bottle of vino without remembering what she had brought down upon herself. But the effect had reversed on Jonathan unexpectedly. Now wine would remind him endlessly of what he had done to her.
Beer reminded him he was no longer drinking wine.
***
'… maybe a third of the suburbs to the east and south of Chicago are what they call dry townships, can you swallow that? One place you can buy liquor; two blocks away it's against the law. The local heat has beefed up the open container violations, all that kinda horse piss. The public issue is 'decency.' The bottom line is cash flow. Y'know - guilt, wrongness is the stalking horse. The paper tiger. What they've really got big boners for is-'
'Tribute,' said Jonathan. His throat had unlocked. 'Your money in their pockets.'
'Rightee-o, Felix. But I'd never seen a dry township until I landed in this corner of the world.'
'What
Similar Books
