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L O G A N
Every morning Colton was in our kitchen, I kissed her goodbye.
Every evening event, every gala, every birthday and family dinner, I
showed her the affection of a loving husband.
Every day I did the same thing with her I did with every woman I’d ever
been with—I went through the motions. Except with her, it was different.
Every day it got harder to lie to myself about why I was touching her.
When we were alone together, I reached for her and pulled back. Unless I
didn’t. Sometimes what I wanted wasn’t aligned with my body’s interests,
and I touched her in spaces where no one needed to be convinced.
The last time had been only a week before. Morning coffee. She had
black ink on her fingertips like a Victorian-era poet. I reached for her hand
without thinking and stroked her palm open to see the faded gray splotches.
“What’s this?” I’d asked.
She’d shuddered, then jerked her hand away. “Nothing. Ink. I’m
working on a thing. It’s terrible.”
Six more months, give or take. In the corner of my computer screen, I
kept a countdown of the days until we filed for divorce. Ostensibly, in the
front of my mind, it was a countdown of the days I had to buy up Papillion
stock. But the 174 days were the interval before she wouldn’t be a
temptation. I wouldn’t have to stay in the office to avoid a constant hard-on.
Every time I walked in my house, I wouldn’t feel the rush of her heady
jasmine scent.
She’d be relieved. She didn’t want me touching her anyway. Once we
were done, she’d have her dead father’s fucking company and the job of
running it.