CONTENT WARNING:
This story's particularly nasty, but the content warnings are spoilery, so if you'd like to be prepared, click here to reveal them...

This story contains spousal abuse, murder, gaslighting, medical trauma, genital trauma, forced surgery, violence, and mutilation.

The businessman and the doctor sit in the doctor's private office deep in the bowels of the massive new medical complex.

"Holeeeeeeeeeee shit," the businessman says. He's barely in his forties, but comfort and success have kept the years from his face, making him look more like the homecoming king he once was than the adult he currently is. But there's an edge in his eyes all the same. Broken glass behind the poster boy perfection that no amount of money can sweep up. He's sitting in a leather chair facing the doctor's shining, cherry oak desk. "Wow, wow, wow."

This is not a medical examination. This is not a room for such things. This is a room for meetings, for dealings.

It's a room for business.

The doctor blushes and raises a rocks glass half-filled (or half-empty, depending on your view of things) with amber liquor worth more than the monthly income of the average American.

"The exciting world of hospital administration!" she exclaims. She's older. Well put together, but her pampering has come later in life, after hard-fought battles, tough decisions, bare-knuckle brawls, and, of course, so much downward pressure.

The businessman meets her toast with his own similarly half-filled—or half-empty–glass.

"And how many doctors under you now?"

"Seven trauma teams, six of the world's top plastic surgeons, and more specialists than we can afford. Plus the psych ward which takes up most of the east wing."

"Look at you," the businessman says. "If I had a hat—" He makes a doffing gesture.

"Aw, you should buy yourself a hat! Life is short! Use those whiz kid tech bucks for something fun."

"Yeah. Right. . ."

A cloud crosses the businessman's face and for the first time the doctor notices how deep-set his eyes have become.

"Uh-oh." The doctor's brow furrows. "Looks like you have something to say."

He shrugs. "I've always got something to say."

"Is it about why you wanted to see me?"

"I mean, I wanted to see my favorite doc in her fancy new digs, but. . ." He stares into his glass. "Are you okay to, um, talk shop a little?"

"Harris. Do I really need to remind you about how your patronage changed my life? I wouldn't be in these new digs without you. For you, I’m always okay to 'Talk. Shop.'"

Her lips form enticing shapes. Her plosives pop and snap.

But he isn't enticed. He seems troubled. Shaken.

"Doctor/patient?" he asks.

"Doctor/patient."

He swallows another mouthful of luxurious, silken liquor.

"I think I’m going crazy." Then he corrects himself. "Gone. I think I've gone crazy."

The doctor leans forward. She is a friend, but she is also a doctor.

"I’m listening."

The businessman takes a deep breath and tells her.

"So. . . a couple weeks ago. . ."

⁂

Harris sat at his marble counter top. He was eating cereal—cereal was mostly all he was up for eating these days. He'd never been one for cooking, and now? The kitchen was too big. A foreign country where he didn't speak the language.

He hadn't shaved or showered in quite some time either.

He was in a daze—so much so that he didn't even jump when his wife, Emily, came into the room.

She moved with some speed.

"Don't forget," she said, going through the gestures of her Running Out the Door ritual, "your suit needs to be picked up. And we need a refill for the seltzer thingy. I love you more than bunches."

She kissed him on the head and a few seconds later the front door closed behind her.

Harris sat frozen, halfway through bringing a spoonful of cereal to his lips.

There was no noise for a very long time until the spoon dropped from his numb fingers and crashed loudly into the bowl.

⁂

The doctor stares at the businessman. She doesn't want to admit that she doesn't understand, so she runs what he said back again in her mind several times. She comes up with nothing.

"Harris," she says at last. "Here's where you tell me what I'm—" She's going to say missing, but before that word can emerge, the businessman says:

"My wife died six months ago. Car crash."

"Oh." The doctor's mouth dries up in a flash.

"Yeah."

"Harris, I'm so. . . How did I not. . . ?"

He waves a dismissive hand. "Please. We haven’t seen each other in. . . We've both been busy." He takes another sip. "Anyway. The things she said? About my suit and the seltzer thingy? Those were the last things she said to me the day she died. She got into one of her cars and. . . and later that night there was an accident. A bad one. Couldn’t even identify the body visually; they had to use her dental. . ." Saying it all out loud overwhelms him for a moment. He quickly shakes it off. Clears his throat, finishes his drink. The doctor seamlessly provides a refill.

He continues. "But I know what you're thinking. To people of our, heh, economic vantage point, spouses are usually the obstacle. Right? It's like most rich assholes stay married just to have someone to scheme around. Not me. I loved her. I loved her so damn much. And I know it wasn't the easiest marriage, she had to put up with a lot. My working all the time. And my temper. I knew she wasn't always happy. Hell, I'm pretty sure she was going to leave me sooner or later. But I would have done anything to keep her. She. . . she was the apogee."

"Good word," the doctor says, her heart breaking for her friend.

"Yeah. And then I lost her anyway." He's back to staring into his drink again.

"Wait, but you said this thing in the kitchen. . . with your wife. . . was a couple weeks ago. How—if she died six months ago—?"

His eyes meet hers–sparkling with, what, sarcasm? Dark humor? Mania?

"Weird, right? The next morning, I thought maybe I'd imagined it, you know? I mean, I had just reached that stage of grief where the waters were ebbing a little. It's like you're buried up to your neck in sand with the tide crashing in on you, but it'd finally started to recede, I could grab a gulp of air and maybe—"

⁂

"Don't forget," his dead wife said again, "your suit needs to be picked up. And we need a refill for the seltzer thingy. I love you more than bunches."

Harris was back at his marble counter top. He'd poured himself an identical bowl of cereal. He was wearing the same set of dirty pajamas. The only difference was this time he was shaking too badly with anticipation to hold a spoon. He'd been waiting to see if she'd show up.

When she kissed him on the head he jumped as if electrocuted.

She giggled and continued for the door.

"What are you doing?" He heard himself asking. "Emily? Are you—?"

She giggled again and, with an all-too-familiar slam, the door closed and she was gone.

It took Harris a few moments to find his legs again. He ran out the door, but. . . nothing. No sign of her (other than all the signs he hadn't yet removed in his newfound position as widower).

Until the next morning, when she came back again at the exact same time.

"Don’t forget your suit needs to be picked up. And we need a refill for the seltzer thingy. I love you more than bunches."

She kissed him on the head and disappeared.

And then the next morning.

"Don’t forget your suit needs to be picked up. And we need a refill for the seltzer thingy. I love you more than bunches."

She kissed him on the head and disappeared.

And the next morning.

And the next morning.

And—

⁂

"And you get it," the businessman tells the doctor.

She's aghast. "How long did this go on?"

"About five or six days before I couldn't go downstairs anymore. I got too unnerved, so I started hiding upstairs to avoid her." He swallows. The doctor can hear his throat click even from where she's sitting. "And that’s when the voicemails started."

"Harris.” The doctor puts a hand flat on her desk, effectively pressing pause on the proceedings. “Do you want me to get a team of paranormal investigators together? I have contacts that are, I mean, they’re as reputable as they can be in that field, but—"

"Just listen." He gets up and pours himself another drink. He tops off the doctor's as well. A sly smile has crossed his lips. "I’m not even close to done."

⁂

"What kind of voicemails? Here, have another drink." Once Harris's glass was fully filled, Terry asked again, "What kind of voicemails?"

They were standing out on Terry's back patio. During the day, there were mountains all around—gorgeous in the light—but now, they were wrapped in such an all-consuming nighttime nothingness that the two men might as well have been floating in the middle of a midnight ocean.

Terry was small and wiry, with a growing hump in his shoulders from bending over a computer keyboard for too long. He was clearly the grown-up version of what some would've called an indoor kid, so his mansion, with its large, luxurious outdoor space, was an awkward fit. But most things fit awkwardly on Terry.

Harris gulped down his drink, then pulled out his phone. He conjured forth his voicemail and pressed play. A woman's voice—Emily's voice—ghostly, barely audible through static, intoned in an almost robotic babble:

"Babe? Babe? It's getting late. I'm worried. Just let me know you're coming home. Babe? Babe? It's getting late. I'm worried. Just let me know you're coming home. Babe? Babe? It's getting late. I'm worried. Just let me know you're coming home. Babe? B—"

Harris turned it off, unable to stand anymore. He said in a hoarse voice, "And there are more where that came from."

It was a warm night but Terry shivered. "Fuck me in the dickhole. . ." he muttered.

"That's what I was texting her."

"'Fuck me in the—?'"

"No. 'It's getting late, I'm worried.' The night she died, I kept texting her. Texting and calling, wondering why she wasn't answering. I didn't know I was. . . texting her corpse." The floodgates broke. Harris began to weep. "I don't, fuck, I don't, just tell me you hear it, please, I need to know I'm not—"

Terry's arms shot out, wrapping around Harris, and pulled him close in a desperate hug. It was a sudden and surprising move, and resulted in the spilling of both their drinks.

"I hear it, too," Terry said. "It's okay. I hear it, too."

They stood that way for several moments. Terry, despite being a year older than Harris, was at least a head shorter, with none of Harris's natural athleticism, so it looked like Terry was some vulnerable animal, clinging to a larger, stronger one for support. But it was Harris who was shaking.

At last, the two friends separated. Harris gave Terry a playful shove.

"'It's okay.' Right. You fucking idiot." He gave a tired laugh that turned into a sigh. "God. Why is this happening?"

Terry set to refilling both their drinks.

"My fucking goosebumps have goosebumps. Shit." Suddenly, Terry screamed, his voice echoing into the mountains. "SHIIIIIT!" His face screwed up in rage. He threw one of the glasses he was holding over the edge of his balcony and into the nothingness beyond. "Someone's fucking with you!" he exclaimed to Harris. Then he blanched, looking back in the direction of his wayward glass. "Crap, I hope that doesn't land on anybody."

Harris hadn't even noticed. He was processing.

"Somebody's what?"

"Fucking with you! Gotta be!"

Terry pushed his big, tortoise shell, Buddy Holly glasses further up his nose. It was a quintessentially Terry gesture. Even with his riches his eyesight was a lost cause.

"Why?" Harris stammered. "How?"

"You can ghost a cellphone easy. Whip up a deepfake no problem."

"But when she kissed me. . . I felt her, Terry. I—"

"Maybe they hired a lookalike?"

"A lookalike?"

"Yeah, y'know, someone who looks like—"

"I know what a lookalike is. But why? Why would anyone—"

"I don’t know! But you're staying with me and Barb." Harris opened his mouth to argue. "Nuh-uh. Don't give me any of your alpha male, lone wolf drippyshit, you're staying with us, we're gonna figure out what the fuck is going on. And hey—" His voice dropped to a mock-conspiratorial low. "While you're here we can work on our other li'l problem, too. Deal?" He held out his hand. "Deal, twatwaddle?"

Harris sighed. It was the easiest way to take the edge off of the tears that were welling up behind his eyes.

"Do you have any idea how much I hate the idea of coming to you for help, chode turnip?"

Terry gave him a big grin. "I can only imagine, douchecanoe."

"So, this is how fucked I am."

He reached out and shook Terry's hand.

The two men looked into each other's eyes with barely-concealed love and couldn't help but laugh.

⁂

"Did it help?" the doctor asks. "Staying with him?"

The businessman nods. "I slept for the first time in fucking millennia. Did you ever meet Terry?"

"Once, I think? At a party?"

"Yeah, he didn't socialize much. Not a lot of people could stand him, honestly. We were the only people who ever hung out with him, Emily and I. Oh, and Barb, his wife. He was like cilantro, you know? Not for everybody." The doctor laughs. The businessman smiles wistfully. "Like, that stupid cursing thing he did? It was like witnessing an alien's approximation of how people—men—interacted. He just didn't know any better. But once you got to love him, you were hooked."

"You both started Polypheme together, right?"

The businessman nods. "He wrote the codes and I got other people to care. Hey, do you mind if—?" He gestures to the drink cart.

Now it's the doctor's turn to smile. "You have to ask for permission now?"

The businessman pours another. Returning to the subject of his friend, he says, "I'd say he's like a brother, but most brothers I know hate each other." Then he pauses. "I didn't realize what I'd wind up doing to him and his wife."

He takes a small sip. Sits back down. "Anyway. It was good timing for me to stay with Terry for another reason, too. Polypheme was in the middle of a big fucking. . ." He gives an uncharacteristically disinterested shrug. "We were in trouble. It actually started brewing like right after this ghost shit began. Wonderful timing. I won’t bog you down with the details; basically, there was a start-up that was about to make us totally obsolete. They had all the power, but we didn't think they knew they had all the power, so we had to figure out how to buy them out without spilling how fucked we were. Honestly, it's the sort of thing I'm usually great at. Terry kept trying to get me to focus on the problem, but I just couldn't concentrate."

"Understandably."

"A couple days later, I snuck back to my house. I had to get a few things. I mean, I didn’t have to, but. . . I was compelled."

He's silent for a long moment. The doctor is about to speak when he says:

"It's a big house, you know. Emily picked it out. I always thought it was too big. But you know that feeling when you're all alone in a big place?"

The doctor nods.

"I didn't have that. It definitively felt like someone was in there with me. Every creak, every shift of the house. At one point I even coulda sworn I heard a door slam and footsteps running away. I ran after the sound, but. . . nothing. Then my phone rang."

The doctor feels her stomach drop a little. "Who was it?"

He chuckles. "It wasn't the first time she'd, uh, 'called' since this all started, but, lemme tell you, you never get used to a phone call from your dead wife. I was too scared to answer. I let it go to voicemail and. . ."

He pulls up another sound file on his phone. The static is very loud, but certain words are unmistakable.

"Don't. . . Don't. . . Darling. . . Get away. . ."

He looks at the doctor with wide, avid eyes.

"New words," he says. "She was saying something new to me. That had to mean something, right? Here I was, in our house, and she was trying to say something new to me, something she hadn’t. . . That's when I realized what I had to do."

⁂

Terry gaped at him, panic blazing behind his thick glasses.

"Waitwaitwait, what are you saying?"

Harris stood there in the doorway, holding his hastily packed duffel. "Terry. I love you, but—"

"No, don't do this, you fucking—"

"I hereby resign my position as President of Polypheme Technologies and appoint Executive Vice President Terence Elbrick as my successor. You're gonna have to handle the buyout and negotiations on your own, okay? I'm out."

⁂

"I'm sure that went over well," the doctor says.

The businessman sits back. “There was some crying. Some begging. A lot of cursing. ‘I can’t do this without you, Harris. I can’t talk to people like you can, Harris. Please, don’t do this, not yet.’”

“’Not yet,’” the doctor echoes curiously, and for a few moments all is silent again.

"You know what business is?" the businessman asks at last. "You'll read all kinds of books trying to phrase it in all kinds of profound ways, but it's pretty simple when you get down to it. All business really is, is the art of knowing what you want. That's it. Needs are easy. We all need the same shit. Figure out what you fucking want. And go from there."

She nods, considering this.

"And what did you want?"

"To see her again."

"Did you?"

"That next morning, right on time, I went down to my kitchen, wearing the same pajamas, poured myself the same bowl of cereal, and waited for her."

More silence unspools.

"I waited all day. She never appeared. The next morning, same thing. I was starting to wonder if I'd imagined it all. Maybe it was all in my fucking head. Until that night."

He hands the doctor his phone.

The doctor holds back a gasp as she flips through the photos and videos staring back at her. She's no stranger to death and gore, viscera, skin pebbled by blood and trauma, crushed into unrecognizable shapes. But she also knew the businessman's wife socially, and seeing her now, twisted, rubbed raw by the road and broken metal, brutalized, even splayed out on what appeared to be the autopsy table, is deeply upsetting.

More sound files are played, a deranged and furious voice shrieking through the room.

"BABE, BABE IT'S GETTING LATE I'M WORRIED JUST LET ME KNOW YOU'RE COMING HOME—COLD—YOUR FAULT—BABE, BABE IT'S GETTING LATE I'M WORRIED JUST LET ME KNOW YOU'RE COMING HOME—YOUR FUCKING FAULT"

"And then," the businessman says calmly, "the next morning, there she was, cheery as fucking pie. 'Don’t forget your suit needs to be picked up. And we need a refill for the seltzer thingy. I love you more than bunches.'"

"Jesus. . ."

"It went on like that for, I don't know, a couple days at least. Horrors all night, then seeing her in the morning like nothing had happened. 'Don't forget, your suit needs to be picked up. . .' It was the closest I'd ever truly felt to absolute, pure madness in my life. Up to that point, at least."

"Harris," the doctor begins.

"Sorry, I can tell you're getting antsy, doc."

"No—"

"Hey, in vliquor veritas, right? Lemme skip to the good stuff."

⁂

Harris was curled up on the kitchen floor. The sun was down and he was waiting for the deluge of nightmares to begin.

Only this time, there weren't images and videos and voicemails stampeding into his phone. This time, there was a slurred voice calling from outside the unlocked front door.

"Yello?!"

Harris sat up as Terry danced his way into the room.

"‘Sup, cuntflap!' Terry spread his arms wide, sloshing a bit from the bottle of Veuve he carried. "Just me, no ghost. Ha!"

"God. Terry. Give me that."

Harris grabbed the bottle, drank deeply.

"Atta baby," Terry cooed. "Howya been?" Harris shook his head. "Did it—I'm just guessing here, but—did it get worse?" Harris nodded. "Yeah. Had a feeling. That’s what you get!"

Harris blinked. "What?"

Terry shook his head, visibly changing the subject. He took the bottle back.

"Hey! We're celebrating!"

"Celebrating?"

"We bought 'em out! Polypheme’s saved!"

"We did?"

Terry began to wheel about the room.

"GodDAMN I never knew how much fucking fun that could be! I gotta, can I confess something? I know I’m fucking wasted but, man, I was so pissed at you the other day, I mean, piiiiiiiiiiiiissssed. And I, I wannid to. . . I wannid to come here and I wannnid to say. . . I’m sorry." He dropped to his knees in front of Harris.

"You don’t have to apologize, Terry—"

"No, no, it wasn’t right of me to get so mad at you, I shoulda anticipated that, you been through a lot lately, you know? Course you know."

"Yeah."

"Yeah. So it was wrong of me to get all grrrrr and I'm sorry." He pointed at Harris, eyes gleaming. "I mean, you did put me in the cuntshitting hot seat like that, man! But, BUT!

I kicked its ass! All by myself! I was fucking inspiring!"

He sprang to his feet with surprising dexterity, kicked a not-too-high karate kick in the air.

"That’s great, Terry—"

"Yeah, I been learning a lot about myself lately, you know? I’m fucking smart, I’m fucking, fucking quicker'n anybody, than you or me or anybody, ever gave me credit for. I mean, here I was thinking if Harris lost his mind, we’d just have to sell the company, and she and me could just live on an island—but then that startup almost fucked everything up and I was like 'Oh shit!' I got real scared! But I didn't need to be scared! I can do anything! I don’t need to hide behind a fucking computer, I can, hahaha, I can seal the deal and I can get the girl! She’s been telling me that for years I shoulda listened, 'Terence I fell in love with you cuz you're bettern' him and you don’t even know it'—"

"Barb?" Harris asked. His voice had become cold.

"Huh?"

"Barb said that?"

A beat. Terry put on an ill-fitting smile.

"Yeah, me and. . . me and Barb, we realized we still love each other, it’s nice."

"That's wonderful."

"Doesn't matter, doesn't matter, AHHHFuck, I’m totally babbling aren't I! Why am I babbling? You know what I haven’t eaten yet, that’s my problem, that was dumb. Ignore me. I’m gonna go get some Arby’s or some shit and you got your little ghost to figure out! Right?"

"Yeah."

"You’re my best friend in the world, titwhistle. You know that? I always wannid to be you. And, uuuuunngggh, I fucked that deal in the backhole! Whoo!"

Terry headed to the door, then stopped to drink the rest of his bottle of champagne.

"Oh. Hey. Don't forget to refill that seltzer thingy. Am I right? Ha! Love you more than bunches!"

He blew a kiss and left Harris sitting there.

⁂

Silence.

Just the sound of ice snapping in glasses.

Then the businessman speaks.

"Here's another thing about business. Hunches are everything. Hunches. . . and acting fast. That next morning, I waited for my lovely little ghost to appear and I approached the situation like I would any other kind of deal. Slowly. Coldly. Knowing what I want."

⁂

Harris was still on the floor when his dead wife visited him the next morning. His hands were folded neatly in his lap.

"Don't forget your suit needs to be picked up," she said. "And we need a refill for the seltzer thingy. I love you more than—"

"Emily," Harris said flatly. "Wait."

She had just bent down to kiss his head—that repetitive gesture that was so maddeningly tactile. All this time, he'd never thought to touch her further. It had been too jarring, too close to blasphemy. But this time, before she got too far away. . .

Harris pulled the massive kitchen knife from his lap and sliced it across the ghost's slender ankle, opening her Achilles tendon up in a wide-mouthed grin.

The ghost went down, smacking the tile floor, screaming. Blood—very real, very alive blood—began to gutter from the wound.

"It's a big day today," Harris continued, standing. "You get into a car crash today. Make sure you caffeinate."

As was usually the case, there was a pot of hot coffee simmering in the percolator on the counter. Harris grabbed the pot and poured scalding hot liquid all over her neck. The supposed dead woman shrieked in agony.

"Stop! Stop! Harris! Please! I can explain! Just wait!"

"Wow. You stay in character," Harris said, "I'll give you that." He grabbed another item from the kitchen counter and approached her.

She was on her stomach, crawling away from him.

"I'll also give you this," he said. "You were always great at reminders."

He straddled her back and stuffed the brand-new CO₂ cartridge for their SodaStream 'seltzer thingy' into her mouth. Then he proceeded to slam her face into the floor. It took a few whacks before the cartridge exploded, taking most of her head with it.

⁂

The doctor's hand is shaking. She puts the mostly-empty glass down on her desk.

"My god. . ." she breathes. "So Emily and Terry were scheming around you? How long do you think they’d been togeth—"

"NO."

The businessman slams the desk in front of him. He leans forward, eyes blazing, and the doctor wonders for the first time whether, if she screams for help, anyone would be able to hear her in this office.

"No," he repeats. "My wife died in a car crash. She died months ago. That was a lookalike. Do you understand?"

"Yes," the doctor whispers.

The businessman raps his knuckles on the desk and gives a rather shrill laugh. "But, ha! You're a smart cookie, Doctor. That's why you get those big doctor bucks. My buddy Terry? He’s a little schemer, for sure! So I made a quick call. I said, 'Hey. Terry. You and Barb should come over. I need to talk to you both. Shit. Bucket.'"

"And then what did you do?"

"Just business, baby." He tips his glass into his mouth and crunches on a piece of ice. "I knew what I wanted. . . and I asked for it."

⁂

"You're right, Harris." Large, unquestionably sincere tears spilled down Terry’s cheeks as he spoke. "It had been my plan all along to make you think you were going crazy. I wanted you to resign from Polypheme, leaving it all to me, but only after you saved the company one last time. Then I was going to sell it away. I always resented you. I cannot tell you how sorry I am."

⁂

"You got him to confess all that?" the doctor asks.

"Sure. Only. . . maybe not so articulately."

The businessman reaches into his jacket pocket andpulls out a fistful of broken, bloody teeth. He lets them rain onto the doctor's desk one by one.

“Harris.” She straightens in her chair. “Professional opinion?”

“Please.” He leans back in his.

“You’re not crazy. Insane maybe. But not crazy.”

He considers this. Then:

“Oh! I almost forgot. I also have this.”

He reaches under his chair for his briefcase. Unclasps it. Removes a small, brown paper bag. The bottom of the bag is dark and sopping wet. He plops the bag on the middle of her desk blotter.

She peers into it.

"I'm looking at severed male genitalia," she reports. "Oh, Harris, I hope this isn't yours."

Harris chuckles. He stands, smoothing and adjusting his clothes with automatic grace.

"Terry is in the trunk of my car right now, Doc. I have with me papers that will transfer all of my assets and net worth to this hospital. All of it. And in exchange, here's what I want. I want him stabilized. I want his bones broken and shaved down (and I have plenty of photos for reference). I want that area—" he gestures to the paper bag "—redesigned. I want just the right amount of his brain taken out so that he doesn’t fight.” He pauses for a half-second, appearing to remember something. “Oh, I killed his wife, Barb, too, so that's gotta get taken care of. And lastly, I want a room. Here. In your beautiful new psych ward. I want to voluntarily commit myself."

She stares at him in horror, all color leeched from her face. "Harris. . ." But she can't think of anything safe to say, and knows her voice will tremble.

"I loved them both, you know. Terry and Emily. I know I wasn't perfect, but. . . I could've lost everything if I'd still had them.” His eyes ice over. “I don’t like being fucked with, though. I don’t like being lied to. I don’t like not being in on the joke. And you know what they were most wrong about? Doc, do you know?"

"No."

"Being visited by my dead wife like that was pretty fucking terrifying. But after the initial shock wore off? They were wrong if they thought I ever wanted it to stop."

⁂

The businessman puts on a record in his new home. Soft jazz fills the room.

It's a small home—smaller than any place he's lived in since he became a successful businessman—but God does it feel right. Even the cushions on the walls are as cozy as a hug. And they're not without a certain minimalist chicness.

He’s wearing a blue jumpsuit, as soft as the music. Simple, elegant. Similarly soft white shoes.

He pours himself a glass of amber liquor from a crystal tumbler. Not every tenants of this facility gets these kinds of accoutrements, but he's always been talented at negotiating.

"Oh no!" He pauses mid-pour and calls out to the other room. "Babe! I just realized something! Somebody should call the dry cleaners and tell them they can keep my suit! Ha! I've gotta feeling we'll be staying in a lot, you know?"

His wife comes into the room. Shuffles, more like.

She's wearing one of his favorite cocktail dresses. Leopard print. Its colors are striking in the muted tones around them.

Her face is swathed in bandages. It will take a while before the reconstructive surgeries heal into something more palatable. There's still some blood seeping through the dress, between her legs, too. He's been a little neglectful when it comes to bandaging up that area. It's hard to be patient sometimes. The businessman thinks this and laughs because, he has to admit, it's something of a pun nowadays.

"God, you look good," he tells her. And despite everything, he means it. It's perhaps a little strange to see her now having to wear tortoise shell, Buddy Holly glasses all the time but he doesn't mind. They—and the eyes behind them—remind him of someone else he loved, too. "This is everything I ever wanted." He takes an appreciative sip. "The apogee."

He sits in the armchair by the record player and pulls his wife onto his lap. A pained moan floats out from the bandaged face.

"Ooo!" he exclaims. "Still sore? Don't worry, my love. You'll be all healed up soon. And then?" He gives a lustful chuckle. "Back to business."

He begins kissing her neck. Through her glasses, she stares off into nowhere.

"I can wait because I know what I want," the businessman whispers into her hair. The kisses continue. Soft. Tender.

"I just want you. I just want you. I just want you. I just want you. I just want you."