I was going nowhere near that thing. ‘What is that?’ ‘What this?’ he said, modelling it for me like it was something to be proud of. ‘This is my manhood.’ ‘Keep that thing away from me!’ I said. ‘But, Hortense, I am your husband.’ He laughed, before realising I was making no joke. The fleshy sacks that dangled down between his legs, like rotting ackees, wobbled. If a body in its beauty is the work of God, then this hideous predicament between his legs was without doubt the work of the devil.
