She hid her face in the pillow, trying to evade reality. Tears welled up in her eyes again and this time she could do nothing to stem the tide as they flowed unchecked down her cheeks. She was evil… Tom was evil, too. But she was worse than Tom, she knew in her bones, worse because she knew right from wrong and had made no effort to resist. She could never face herself again, knowing what she was. She could no longer live with herself! She began to sob uncontrollably until at last, tears still streaming down her cheeks, she fell into a troubled sleep…
The next morning Kelly arose early and hurried to shower and dress before Tom awoke. She was filled with shame, her body tense and aching from the way she had been fucked. It was so indecent, she told herself. Shocking and evil, and worst of all, she had enjoyed it. Oh, dear God! She truly was nothing more than a whore!
She scrubbed at her lovely white body, sending cascades of suds flowing over her ripely heaving breasts, then soaping the soft pink folds of flesh between her widespread thighs, and the hair-lined lips of her quivering cunt, as if somehow she could wash away the humiliation of the night before, cleanse and purify herself.
She stepped from the shower at last, patting herself dry with a thick and fluffy towel, then dusted herself with powder. She hastily pulled on her little white panties and her matching brassiere then a short ruffled housecoat. Staring at herself in the mirror, searching her face for some sign of evil there, some decadence, she brushed her long golden hair. Finally she sketched her mouth lightly with a pale lipstick. Then she went downstairs, measured out the coffee and put it on to perk and squeezed two glasses of fresh orange juice
When Tom awoke, he glanced quickly at the other side of the bed and saw that it was empty. He blinked, feeling puzzled, depressed and wondering why. Then everything came back to him and a wave of shame engulfed him. Oh, Christ! Why had he treated Kelly like that? What had made him lose his temper, inflamed him so that he treated his wife like some common whore, some slut he might have picked up!
Tom shook his head, not knowing, but wondering where Kelly was and how she felt about him now. Not so good, he thought, She probably hated him. He'd been a bastard to her. He really had! What a bastard he was! For a terrible moment he thought that she might even have left him. Christ! He couldn't blame her if she did, if she'd gone home to her mother or something.
A terrible feeling of loneliness came over him, and he wondered how in the hell he could go on living without Kelly. Even when things were bad, even when she grated on his nerves the way she had the night before, he knew that he had to have her.
He sat up in bed, listening now, while his heart flailed against his ribs. Christ! If Kelly were gone there wasn't any use in even getting out of bed… then he heard her in the kitchen while the fragrance of freshly brewed coffee floated upstairs.
Oh, thank God! Kelly was in the kitchen making breakfast, just like every morning. With a sign of relief he rolled from the bed, grabbing for his trousers that he'd dropped on the floor the night before, then headed for the shower himself. Things seemed brighter now, even though he still hated himself for the way he'd treated Kelly. What a crumb he was, he thought as he stepped into the shower and the scalding hot water sprayed down on him. He sang as he stepped out and dried himself, as he quickly pulled on his pants, as he shaved and then slicked down his hair with lotion. But as he went downstairs, he suddenly stopped, again ashamed of himself.
He went into the kitchen eyeing his wife dolorously. He waited a moment for her to speak, then cleared his throat. "Hello," he said, while a feeble grin of embarrassment flashed across his features.
Kelly turned to him, her eyes wide and sorrow-filled. "Good morning, Tom," she said.
Tom winced. Oh, so she was going to be like that, was she? Cold, acting hurt. And then later she would forgive him. Christ, if there was anything that made a guy feel guilty, it was having his wife forgive him. He wished they could have the kind of row he'd seen at home when he was a kid and get it all over with. But damn it all, that wasn't her way. Christ, she wanted to suffer, that was all. But maybe that was just poetic justice, after what he'd done to her.
Tom sat down at the table and drank his orange juice while Kelly fried a couple of eggs for him and popped two slices of bread into the toaster. She poured his coffee and placed the cup in front of him, then deftly slipped the eggs on a plate and handed it to him. And then, still saying nothing, she sat down opposite him. She picked up her own cup of coffee and sipped at it, staring at Tom over the rim of the cup.
Her eyes hadn't changed, unless the hurt in them had deepened. They reminded him of a dog he'd had once, a cocker spaniel, who used to give him the same sort of stare when he was left behind. It had made him feel terrible, too, just the way Kelly now did. Well, hell!
He wolfed down his eggs, caught a piece of toast as it popped from the toaster, and slathered it with butter. "We got any jam?" he asked, his mouth full.
"Why, yes, I think we do." She rose to get it, looking through the refrigerator. "Blueberry," she announced. "Will that do?
"That will do just fine," Tom said grimly. And then, as an afterthought he added, "Thanks."
"You're very welcome."
Tom bit back an angry retort, then spooned some jam onto his plate. He spread the toast and took a bite, then remembered Kelly. "Want some?" he asked, pushing the jam pot toward her.
"No," Kelly murmured. "No thank you."
You're very welcome, he thought. You're very welcome. But once again he bit the words back. She picked up her coffee again, sipped at it, then put it down. "Could I have the sugar, please?" she asked.
Tom passed it to her. "Cream?"
"Yes, please." She dropped two lumps of sugar into the cup, poured in the cream, then stirred the muddy mixture absentmindedly.
Torn finished the eggs, took a second piece of toast and mopped up his plate with it. "You not eating anything this morning?" he asked at last.
"Just coffee."
"Aw, come on and eat something, would do you good." "I'm not hungry, Tom"
"Oh, you're not hungry," he said, losing his patience at last. "That's too bad, isn't it?"
Kelly flinched as if he'd struck her a stinging blow across the cheek. Damn it, he thought. I wish I had. And then again he felt the terrible guilt that had assaulted him earlier. He stared at his wife, watching a tear slide down her cheek again, just as one had the night before. Damn her! God damn her anyway. He pushed his chair back and got to his feet, rattling the dishes on the table. Then he brought his fist crashing down onto it, making them jump. "Shit!"
"Tom!"
"Tom!" he mocked her. "Tom! God damn it, Kelly, I don't have to take any more of this B.S…" He turned around, almost knocking over his chair and stamped out of the room. He got his jacket from the closet, fished in his pocket for the car keys, found them, then stomped to the front door. He stopped there, listening, but there was nothing to be heard. The house was as quiet as a deserted church on a summer afternoon… and suddenly Tom felt like a heel, like the biggest heel on earth. Jesus! He didn't want to walk out on Kelly this way. He didn't want to walk out on her anyway. What the hell was the matter with him?
He had a brief sense of what it would be like to come home night after night if Kelly were to leave, to go home to her mother or something like that. The deafening silence night after night, the lonely hours with nothing but television for company. The solitary drinking, not for pleasure but just to get drunk, to blot out his guilt. And his shame, too. Damn it all! And it didn't have to be that way, he thought. It didn't have to be! Not if he would go back and apologize to his wife.