With a light press she dispersed
two long, corpulent worms of Lancome lotion into her hand.
Working one hand over the other with systematic precision, she
performed the evening ritual without ever once looking at them.
On this occasion she focused her vision, through the mirror, on
the lighted bathroom doorway at the opposite end of the bedroom
suite. Finishing up, working again on the familiar motions
without directly needing to - without wanting to - watch what she
was doing, she reached into a drawer and retrieved a pair of
fine, exclusively tailored white silk gloves. Just as she was
pulling on the second glove the bathroom light snapped off.
Matthew appeared, wearing light blue Oxford cloth pajamas made of
the same material used to tailor his business shirts. That was
her husband, she thought with a tinge of malice, all business
both in and out of bed.
Greta snapped off the lighted mirror and climbed beneath the cool
sheets, folded the layers of bedclothes to just below her
breasts. Matthew settled on top of the sheets, sealing her in on
one side, and clamped his hands together behind his head.
Straining her peripheral vision, she saw that he was staring at
the ceiling.
She turned on her pillow to face him. "Darling, don't keep
thinking about tomorrow." Softly: "Try to relax."
Taking her advice, she watched as the puzzled, problem-solving
frown on his face slackened and was replaced by a vague yet
unwavering gaze.
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