He had been here ten minutes, and she had been hoping it would start soon. Oh, it was a wonderful, wonderful cathartic experience. He was removing his shirt. The first minutes were always normal. How have you been? Did you have trouble getting here? Kisses. Feels. And now:

“You wouldn’t lie to me, would you?”

“No, damn it! I’ve told you a hundred times—”

“Not that many.”

She was twenty-seven, twenty years his junior. It was apparent this evening that he thought he could provoke her more by indulging in petty argument. Quibbling. So she waited. He thought she was stymied, and as he removed his shirt, he smiled. She kept waiting. This wasn’t acting. It was a game, intense, exciting. Real. She had the belt in her hand; he had seen that she was ready. Maybe this time he wanted it quickly. She hoped so. She wanted the payoff, suddenly wanted it so much that she had to close her mind to it, dare not think of it.