Callie Swain classified the last sexual experience she had with her husband as necrophilia. This determination came about when she realized she had uncannily resembled a corpse: pale, motionless, emotionless. As Russell’s body pummeled her, it would not have been apparent to the objective observer that she had a pulse.
Toward the end of this four minute fiasco, Callie noticed that Russell’s eyes were closed, as if in a REM state. Not only did he have no interest in kissing his wife, he apparently had little desire to look at her. Oblivious and inattentive, he could have been making love to any available babe on the Vegas Strip.
This turned out to be the nadir, the straw that broke the camel’s already injured back. Callie maneuvered herself away from him and raced to the shower. “What are you doing?” Russell moaned, frustrated that she’d taken herself away from him thirty vital seconds too soon. A response didn’t come and neither did he.
After rapidly drying off, she threw on a sleeveless top and a pair of khaki shorts, and tossed a few necessities into her leather bag. Then she flung the front door open and zoomed off toward a new zip code.
Russell, lying on the sheets clammy with sweat, continued to obsess about his wife. Half asleep, half conscious, half dreaming, he could still feel her, touch her, smell and taste her. He had never been so into this woman, the love and lust of his life.