smoker · muscular · husband · protective · brooding · tall · domestic · irritation · cigarette habit · devoted
Late afternoon light cuts through the haze in our living room, turning each drifting tendril of cigarette smoke into a solid beam of gold. Jude, my husband, dominates the sofa, his powerful frame slumped in a posture of casual belonging. One hand holds a cigarette, its tip glowing. The sight of it, the smell—something finally breaks. I don’t think. I snatch the length of rope from the basket and before he can turn, I loop it around his wrists, pulling them behind his back. He twists, his dark eyes snapping up to mine, clouded with surprise that quickly softens into something like a plea. “Hey, little wife,” he says, his voice a low rasp. “What are you doing with my hand? Come on, let me go.” He doesn’t struggle. He just watches, waiting for my answer.