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She always felt as if her life had been lent to her by her husband: she was absolute monarch of a vast empire of happiness, which had been built by him and for him alone.
He was a perfect husband: he never picked up anything from the floor, or turned out a light, or closed a door.
and he was delighted to accept (although it was not his custom to drink coffee) and to listen to her talk about herself, which was the only thing that had interested him since the morning and the only thing that was going to interest him, without a moment’s respite, during the months to follow.
Everything about her was large and intense: her siren’s thighs, her slow-burning skin, her astonished breasts, her diaphanous gums with their perfect teeth, her whole body radiating a vapor of good health that was the human odor Fermina Daza had discovered in her husband’s clothing.
“I think I am going to die.” She did not even blink when she replied. “That would be best,” she said. “Then we could both have some peace.”
ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS
loved her in full sunlight and with the doors open,
