He closed in on the bathroom, and
found his wife in the tub. She raised her face from some sort of
picture book or atlas propped on a silver bath tray table.
He lowered himself to the closed toilet seat. "It's over," he
said.
"Thank God," Greta said. She closed her eyes and stretched her
right arm out of the tub. Bubbles and soapy water dripped from
her perfect hand onto the floor. "Darling, would you pass me the
oil please?"
He handed her a bottle of spiced bath oil. She held it there, out
of the tub, until she caught his eye. She led his vision to the
bottle's cap and he uncapped it and held it while she squeezed
the red liquid into the water. It spurted from the bottle and he
was suddenly mesmerized by the mixture as it bled into the water.
He studied his wife with sullen fascination as she lay there with
her eyes closed, gently oscillating her shoulders and legs,
mixing up the oil and water. With her eyes still closed, she held
out the bottle to him again. Accepting it, his hand touched hers
for an instant. He shivered, and felt a sudden need to urinate.
He could not remember the last time he had seen her other hand
naked, which was presently hidden somewhere under the water in
the tub. Nor could he remember the last time they had made love,
though he was pretty certain it was the evening before
International Foods had thrown the yacht party for him to
celebrate the success of Orange Fresh.
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