But you couldn't let some guy shoot a woman and walk away. A man couldn't do that. "Christ, she doesn't even know," he said aloud. She gave a graduate seminar every Tuesday evening. She probably hadn't gotten home till ten. His note had simply said In Boston, back late.

He hadn't wanted her to worry and it was too complicated to explain in a note. He drank beer. There was half a can left.

He hated to be out when she came home. He loved to see her come home from work. She dressed so well. Her makeup was so perfect. She was so in charge with her black briefcase and her tailored clothes and her hair in perfect order. She always looked so beautiful that he wanted to make love with her on the couch with her clothes still on in an explosion of affection and desire. He never did, though. She never wanted to. Always had to be when she said, and under her circumstances. Control. She's always gotta be in control. Always it was at night when she didn't have to wash her hair. Never when she had an early class. Always after a bath. Never if her good clothes would wrinkle. Always she touched him. Never he touched her. Always she ended the foreplay. Still, it's regular. You can count on it. He finished the beer. No point running over that dead trail again.

Nothing's perfect. We're doing fine.

He put the three empty beer cans in the kitchen wastebasket, went to the downstairs bathroom to urinate, and headed up to bed.

The bedroom was dark when he went in. The airconditioner was on. He closed the door behind him. Janet made a muffled noise on the bed and moved. The noise was something like a groan. She made it again. The thrill of fear surged back. His face felt hot. He turned on the overhead light.