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sp; He holds his hand up to stop me. “You’ve been God-knows-where. Take a shower, for Christ’s sake. Then we’ll need to pray. Afterward, I’ll want to lie with you. But then you’re used to that, aren’t you?”
I imagine myself taking a kitchen knife and stabbing him. I imagine pouring antifreeze into his soup. I imagine running him over with the car. At present, the options are endless.
“Let me see Matthew first,” I say. “Please.”
He waves his hand in the air. “What’s it matter? It’s not like he’ll know the difference.”
I’m too tired to fight. I climb the stairs, strip out of my clothes and flip on the shower. I’m hoping he won’t follow, but I’m never that lucky. “So, tell me all about it.” My husband likes hearing about the rejuvenation center.
I offer up the story about the pool, about nearly drowning, and I tell him about the sleep deprivation. I don’t know what I’m expecting. Maybe a little rest?
He leans against the vanity. “That must have been horrible for you.” He goes on to quote the Bible. “For the wrongdoer will be paid back for the wrong he has done, and there is no partiality.”
The average age of death for a male in the United States is 78.4. My husband is sixty-seven. Right now, eleven years seems like an eternity. I’d almost rather take the prison time. I think of Matthew without parents, in an attempt to get my head back in the game.
“Clean yourself good,” he says, stroking himself. “And how was the job?”
“Fine. The usual.”
He leans in and turns the temperature cold. “You can do better than that.”
I step out of the spray. “Just standard stuff. Missionary. Didn’t take long.”
Finally, he turns the water dial back toward warm. “Did he want you to talk dirty to him?”
“No.”
“Did he talk dirty to you? Call you a whore?”
“No.”
“What a shame.”
My husband is very angry. He doesn’t like it when I end up in the rejuvenation center. It reflects poorly on him. He’s determined to reach the top. “Get on your knees,” he orders. He sits on the edge of the bed, same as always.
I do as I’m told. Life is easier this way.
“Now, repent.”
Sean likes it when I beg for forgiveness. He says it makes me pure again.
I say the usual verses.
The clock reads 11:27.
When I’ve finished, he asks me to lie on the bed, face down.
The clock reads 11:44.
I feel him move over the top of me. The entry is rough. My fingers grip the pillowcase. “He didn’t fuck you like this, did he?” he asks, his mouth is hot and wet on my ear.
“No,” I say into the pillow.
“No, what?”
“No, not like this.”
