Fuck the Bach

Corrine was less than forthcoming about her extramarital activities, and who could blame her? 
Doing it was one thing, talking about it with her husband quite another. Which is why Larry was forever loath to inquire after his wife’s nocturnal outings. He knew he risked a shot to the mouth or a slap across the face just for asking.

Like for instance the rain-soaked morning she arrived home, panties in one hand, flip-flops in the other.

“You must be freezing,” he said, having risen from a fitful slumber to answer the bell. “And where’s your key?”

“Mind yer own freakin’ beeswax. Laaarry.” She’d said, sauntering to the shower, tracking mud down the hall behind her. 
Had she rolled her eyes when she said his name? Larry couldn’t decide.

As always, he was cordial and obedient. In all his life he’d never known a woman like this. She was paradise run amok, a wild, untamable mystery, and in the thrall of that mystery he was lily-livered, yellow-bellied, gutless—putty in her hands his father liked to say. 
Larry could no more protest her infidelities than he could defend his own pathetic groveling. He simply adored every inch of this woman and had long ago decided that he would tolerate any abuse she might see fit to rain down upon him, so long as he could daily inhale her divine scent, so long as he could snooze an occasional night away at her blessed side.

He smoked a cigarette and tidied the magazines on the nightstand while he waited for her to return from the bathroom. He looked out the window. There were people in the street. It had stopped raining. Maybe they could go for a walk.

Finally he heard her coming. She was whistling “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring”, a favorite of his.

“Oh, I love the Bach,” he chirped as she entered the room.

“Fuck the Bach,” she said. “I need a nap.”