Hurricane

She smells of Obsession; her lips are scarlet, the dangly earrings and gold chain a Christmas present requiring two more payments.   

“Don’t wait up,” she says, “I may be late.”  

I grab the noosed rope from under the counter, slip it around her, pull tight.  The nylon rope holds her arms immovable against the back of the oak chair, another piece around her ankles, tight against the chair legs.  She does not say a word when I cut off a piece of duct tape and her breathing remains even.

I place duct tape over her mouth and run the back of my hand over the length of it, cheek to cheek.  Tomorrow is our second anniversary and I’ve ordered long stem roses.  The man she was about to see is either the fourth or fifth.  Some mornings as she makes an entrance reeking of whisky, cigarettes, semen, I’m uncertain of that night’s companion. 

She’s convinced I love her too much to inflict hurt.  Amuse yourself, her eyes say.  We haven’t done tying up before.  I might like it.

All evening I prepare for an audit, tally rows of numbers, pour through pages of data, hoping to make them balance as on my TV screen, sound muted, Hurricane Sandy rages.  My numbers suffocate.

I cut another piece of duct tape, bring the strip to her face, put one end against her right cheek, cover the nostrils, press the other against the left. Her face grows purple; her eyes bulge and tear up; she tries to lift herself off the chair.  A few minutes later it is over.

I leave the trailer door open, climb into the truck, turn the radio to a country music station and drive west.