With everyone gone, Carlos, his face a mask of cold fury, smoothed the front of his trousers with a series of sharp, angry movements. He walked over to where his formal coat lay discarded on the gravel path, picked it up, and began to dust it off with a detached, careful gesture, as if brushing away not just the dirt, but the entire sordid incident. And Ashlyn, his wife, his victim, he treated as if she were nothing more than a part of the dirt.
He turned and began to walk away, his back rigid, offering no word of apology, no glance of remorse.
Ashlyn, her mind still reeling from the shock of his slap and the cruelty of his words, scrambled after him. "Carlos!" she cried, her voice a ragged, desperate plea. "I am your wife! You did such a filthy thing today, in my parents' home, and now you are not even willing to give me an explanation?"
He did not answer. He did not slow his pace. He continued walking, his determined stride a clear and final dismissal of her and her pain.
