He emerges from the washroom, shaken. Weak. Are you ok? she asks him. She puts a hand on his forehead. My love isn’t strong enough, she says.

I drove slowly. Others honked at me so I drove slower still. You are so passive aggressive, my wife said, squeezing her legs together harder.

We make love in a rote manner. Hold hands in the strip mall parking lot wearing our scratchy sweaters. And neither of us enjoys necrophilia.