If Dexter were around more, if he were more attentive in every way—in any way: if he said thank you more, or called once in a while to do something other than say he wasn’t coming home, or fucked her more frequently or more passionately or more creatively, or if he would just fold a single goddamned load of laundry—then maybe she wouldn’t be walking down this street, fantasizing about getting into that bed with the gun strapped to the bottom.
