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The Beasts of Love HE LAY FACE UP ON HIS SIDE OF THE bed and stared at the dark expanse of ceiling. The hall clock chimed the hour. Two o’clock, he thought, and all is … well …. The final chime faded. He found himself listening as the house talked to itself, murmuring deep in its throat. Wood creaked and groaned, and somewhere far down in the house the thermostat clicked with a sound not so much actually heard as sensed. The house seemed to throb in time with the air conditioner’s rumblings. After an eternity, the rumblings ceased. The machinery settled down. He heard soft whirs and purrings and tried separating them, identifying them, willing each in its turn to stop and let him go back to sleep. He became aware of the rustle of breath through nostrils. Bitch, he thought. There was a flutter of movement near his side. Goddamn bitch. The flutter stopped. Thank you, bitch. God, he hated her. He did not have to turn his eyes her way to see her. He had seen her on too many occasions, and it would be now as it had been always: the bitch would have kicked the light coverlet down around her calves, would have got her gown twisted up around her breasts, would be sprawled belly up in the semidarkness with her legs bent and spread and looking for all the world like some monstrous pale frog awaiting the point of the dissecting knife. God, he hated her. It was not just a matter of many minor annoyances and a number of major ones endured over the years. It had become, early on, much too early on, a matter of retaining them
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