1956

He would always come home at twelve minutes past five. He would always peck her on the lips, beam that salesman smile — the one she could never decipher the sincerity of — and tell her she looked one-in-a-million.

"My god," he'd say, "you don't look a day over eighteen."

"Thank you, my darling," she'd reply, trying not to choke on the predictability of it all.

"Didn't I tell you that face cream was the best my money could buy?"

"Yes, dear," she'd say, laughing a fake laugh. He wouldn't notice. He never noticed.

They would always eat dinner at quarter past six. The kids would make their usual racket and he would tell them to quieten down as he read the newspaper over his food — and Jean would quietly empty her plate, reflecting on how Jimmy the gardener's big, generous cock, the best her husband's money could buy, kept her feeling alive and looking young every day.