I try to imagine what it would be like to enjoy the company of a sane woman. I wonder how my life might be different had I chosen another wife. Did I really ever have a choice? Does Grace carry some silent badge of incipient insanity, some telltale sign that she is unstable? Is that why I find myself attracted to her? Or is she what she appears to be-an intelligent, attractive woman? Is this my opportunity for a second chance? I imagine myself making love to this woman, not submitting to her, but enjoying her body as she enjoys mine. I imagine myself gaining strength and insight from her. I imagine this small infidelity changing me in some intrinsic way. I imagine myself leaving Rachel.

“Oh, come on! It would be fun. Live a little.”

I feel the change welling up inside me. I feel mischievous, giddy, and alive. “Well, maybe just for-”

A horrible moan oozes from Grace’s slack mouth. Her grasp on my arm tightens painfully. Her car is in front of us. The windshield is smashed. The glass is cracked and opaque like a cataract.

“Oh, my God! My car! Jesus Christ. Who…”

All four of the tires have been mercilessly slashed. Chunks and ribbons of black rubber litter the area. A kitchen knife protrudes from one of the tires. I extricate myself from Grace’s grip. I have to squat down and leverage myself against the wheel to pull the knife out. I put it in my coat pocket.

“I can’t fucking believe this! I can’t even fucking imagi-”

I back away from the car. Away from Grace.

“What are you doing?”

I back away. I look at the ground, because I can’t look at her. My feet carry me away from her. “I’m sorry. I have to.”

“Have to? Have to what? Where the fuck are you going? You can’t leave me here!”

“I’m sorry,” I say. There is nothing else for me to say.

“You can’t leave me here!”

But I can, and I do.

When I get home, all the lights are off. I walk through the dark house and into the kitchen. I take the knife from my pocket and return it to the vacant spot in the cutlery block.