Fourty One

Sarah stared blankly at the man above her. Her blue eyes locked with the brown gaze of the English-born man who had become her husband. It had been a few weeks since they got married, but Sarah couldn’t let go of anything whenever they made love. She couldn't reach climax, and everything ended in pretense.

“I’m going to finish, darling!” Louis’s groan marked the end of their heated sex that night.

Or at least, that’s what they did as part of the formalities of marriage on top of business matters. Louis turned and rolled over to Sarah’s side. His breath was still heavy from the remnants of their activity together.

“Can you look at me when we make love?”

Sarah’s heart raced, but not from passion. The question hung between them, heavy with meaning. She hesitated, unsure of how to respond. Her body, tense under the weight of Louis’s words, seemed to freeze. The room, dimly lit by the streetlights outside, felt suffocatingly small, as if the walls were closing in on her.

“What do you mean?