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The broken Kindle and the chicken breasts that Irving had put out on the counter the previous night, had ended up in the trashcan. The Kindle by her, and the chicken by the chef. He had taken one sniff of it, and had made a face of disgust. He had then attacked the whole counter with a bleach and water solution.She looked at the clock. She didn't expect her husband to be home for another hour; that is, if he was even going to come home, that evening.She walked around the house inspecting the work that had been performed. She had to admit that it looked a whole lot different than it had, that morning. The wood was polished, the floors were clean, the bathrooms shined, and even the windows had been washed. Although the pantry remained empty, the freezer was filled with food. There was a salad with grilled shrimp in the refrigerator for that evening. It had only taken seven people the whole day to accomplish it.The doorbell rang. Dreading what she would find upon answering it, she made. He wanted her to move closer, to take the box and hurl it into the trash and assure him she could never go to him again. Instead she looked down at the box as though sizing its dimensions. Steven shivered as he imagined she was guessing its contents."You don't have to go. He can't force you."She began to go to him, then stopped after several steps, lowering her head as she spoke. Her robe was undone, and parted a few extra inches in the front as she walked. His eyes wandered down over the trail of exposed flesh, the inner curves of her breasts, her flat belly, to the naked slit between her legs, now freshly shaved and parted slightly to reveal a deep red, pulsing core."You don't understand. He only sees me when I ask. I thought you knew that. It's me. I have to go." You don't have to go, damn it! I love you, but even I have limits! Just how much more do you expect me to take?"Her expression changed to one of disappointment. Her eyes were filled with more sadness than he had ever.
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