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Back A Small Affair Save as PDF
Chapters (54)
  1. Cover
  2. Praise
  3. Dedication
  4. About the Author
  5. Part One
  6. 1
  7. 2
  8. 3
  9. 4
  10. 5
  11. 6
  12. 7
  13. 8
  14. 9
  15. 10
  16. 11
  17. 12
  18. 13
  19. 14
  20. 15
  21. Part Two
  22. 1
  23. 2
  24. 3
  25. 4
  26. 5
  27. 6
  28. 7
  29. 8
  30. 9
  31. 10
  32. 11
  33. 12
  34. 13
  35. 14
  36. 15
  37. 16
  38. 17
  39. 18
  40. 19
  41. Part Three
  42. 1
  43. 2
  44. 3
  45. 4
  46. 5
  47. 6
  48. 7
  49. 8
  50. 9
  51. 10
  52. EPILOGUE
  53. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  54. Booklist

She had her feet up on the table. Of course, those were swollen, too, malodorous and sticky, unpolished. Her feet had always weirded him out, made him think of sinewy sides of ham, hanging at the butcher’s, ready to be sliced. She was scratching a spot on her ankle, using the nubby nail of her left toe. “Can you get your feet off the table?” he had finally said, waves of disgust rippling through him. She was used to his commands, of course, had initially loved the way he loved her, molding her into the kind of woman he wanted her to be. But at that point his commands hadn’t been laced with such revulsion. She’d glanced at him, her eyes softening, turning into puddles of liquid before he could even rephrase the request, maybe explain to her in more precise, cautious words.

She’d left the sofa, her and her belly, and gone upstairs. Didn’t speak to him for days after that. And when she finally did, it was with halting trepidation, contrition, self-doubt. He had made her this way. He knew that.

On the ride home in the Uber, she faced her window, silent. He slipped out his phone and checked on the research conducted by Sy, the twenty-year-old hacker. The woman he was after now was only on two apps, one that was exclusive, for people with a so-called high profile. The other app was one on which the women made the first move. That one wouldn’t work.

So as his wife sat beside him, he tapped out a profile, setting a trap, a frisson of excitement running through him. God, his wife would hate him for this; it would make her boil over. And that was exactly what he wanted.

She deserved it for her betrayal.

4

VERA

Present day

It’s too much. All of it is too much. I’m drowning again, but instead of hiding upstate, I’m cutting my image, slicing and dicing myself, little paper strips of my skin and hair and eyes cluttering my floor, getting trapped between the floorboards. Day in and day out, inserting myself into my collages where I hadn’t thought I was needed. Valencia filter, Hudson, Jakarta, peeping out from grainy newsprint. My bed has become a mausoleum of tiny me’s, earlier me’s, saner me’s. When I sleep, I sleep on the couch.