“No!” Her thoughts had turned in a new direction. ‘I might have killed you,’ she snapped, ‘if only you did not say anything. Shame and electricity coursed through her veins, flowing directly from him in a flash flood. That her husband was not touching her anymore grew to be like a disease, something to be cured. She had not anticipated such a response from her classmates, but knew to be drawing them with her self-consciousness as if they were bees to pollen. So, step by step, and hurt by hurt, Ruth was learning that John Smith was John Smith and nobody else. She was lamentably without comparisons; such few young men as she had seen—white men—had been on the beach, pitiful and terrible objects. There was a photo of her that looked exactly like you.
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