He had grown accustomed to the smell of bleach in the bed, in his hair after toweling dry. Had, after eight years, trained himself to scrub the shower and the sink after each use, shake out the rugs each morning, roller the cat hair off the couch before tucking himself into bed each night in his pristine pajamas—gestures that came now as easily as shaving. And he had to admit it: he liked the dependability of creases in his trousers, the clear shine of his shoes, the slim crescent of white capping each of his manicured fingernails.
Still, something had gone wrong. He had this fantasy that he couldn’t bring himself to dwell on for too long, but it came to him often in his dreams. The heat would rise along his spine and he would have to get up from the bed and ejaculate into the toilet, eyes still closed, watching himself wrap his immaculately groomed fingers around her perfect white neck and wring out the ammonia that he was sure flowed in her veins.
Still, something had gone wrong. He had this fantasy that he couldn’t bring himself to dwell on for too long, but it came to him often in his dreams. The heat would rise along his spine and he would have to get up from the bed and ejaculate into the toilet, eyes still closed, watching himself wrap his immaculately groomed fingers around her perfect white neck and wring out the ammonia that he was sure flowed in her veins.