Her husband was still asleep in the bedstead, his breathing more a wheeze than a snore. She looked at him and sighed. There was no part of him that she did not detest. Even his beard, scruffy from a night against the pillowbeer, repulsed her. His left hand sat beside his face, the fingers splayed and reminiscent of a spider, and she wondered what it would be like for him to be awakened by a fork being plunged into the back of it. Or by having a pot of boiled salad dumped upon him.
AMEN
