And she began to realize that this was wrong, that there was something specifically wrong with her. A woman was not supposed to be revolted by her husband’s caresses. Fear might be normal, fear at the onset of love, fear of pain and fear of the unknown. All virgins were frightened at first. But what she felt was a great deal more than the normal fear and anxiety of a virgin bride. Much more.

Finally, it was time. She felt her whole body go rigid, resisting him with the passive determination of a follower of Gandhi, and she felt his hands, strong, sure of themselves. And then a sharp stab of pain that seared her flesh and blinded her and brought tears to her eyes. She gasped from the pain, and he seemed to take that gasp for evidence of long-dormant passion.

The pain ebbed gradually but not completely, so that there was a subtle background of pain as an accompaniment to everything that followed. She lay inert, a living corpse, feeling nothing but the pain, feeling none of the pleasurable sensations you were supposed to feel when the pain receded and the man you loved made sweet love to you.

Nothing.

Nothing at all.

Afterward, when he had rolled aside and lay panting next to her, she stared up at the ceiling and wondered if this was really all there was to it. It seemed so small, so useless, so-so unpleasant. There had to be something wrong with her, something very wrong with her.

“I love you,” he said.

She said nothing.

“Baby?” His hand on her shoulder. “I hurt you, didn’t I?”

“I’m all right.”

“I wanted it to be good for you. But… well, maybe it has to be painful the first time, for a woman. How do you feel?”