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her as a lean, dynamite red head in his first year Introduction to English Lit class, whose frequent intelligent remarks backed up her good looks. He could never picture himself with a partying, sorority airhead anyway, so Carol had always seemed like a perfect match. She had been assertive enough to chase after what she wanted, but coy enough to make the first move then lay low and let what she wanted come to her.

    Having spent last night in the back seat of his car had sobered him. His chest still felt tense, his fingers still tingled. He reflected on how his right hand had almost flown last night, how it would have felt so goddamn good, amazing, had he not choked back his rage. He decided that not slapping her had been prudent on numerous levels. Instead, he had gazed deep into his wife's eyes and wondered if he hated her. No, the animosity didn't run that deep, he told himself. He was angry, downright pissed in fact, but he would collect himself. He still loved her, but that love had changed. Admitting that sliced through him more than believing he hated her had, but he wouldn't try and make sense of that.

    He sucked in a deep breath and coughed again, but the air still felt good, still helped him to clear his head. The musty smell aside, the house embodied separate scents of cookie dough, pancake batter, baking bread, oil paints and turpentine, all smells he invariably associated with his grandparents. He wondered if he had imagined those smells, or if they were so fresh that he could stroll into the kitchen and find them all laying out on the counter. The house had stood empty for nearly a year, and would be a place for him to stay, away from Carol, away from his parents, away from the world. In a way, he felt like he'd been called home.

    How he had admitted to what had happened between he and Carol to his father, he would never figure out. No, we're not divorcing, Dad, just separating. But we're not really separating either. He'd said that much without tripping over his words, yet he still felt his insides tighten. In the small hours of the morning, he'd shown up at his parents' house with only his duffel bag. He needed a place to stay, but moving back in with his folks, even temporarily, wasn't what he'd had in mind. Dad had walked straight to the key rack to grab the key to Randy's grandparents' house before he could suggest it, and before Randy could ask.

    Memories. On the drive over, he reflected on how he had spent the happiest moments of his childhood in this house. Sleepovers and summer days. Christmases, Easters and birthdays all had been spent here with Nana and Bupa. Now he realized that one of the lowest moments of his adulthood had led him back to the house. Not the lowest, he decided, but damn close.

    Maybe it was for the best, he thought. He again considered what might have happened had he stayed in his own house a minute longer, and he was glad that he had made a calmer, wiser decision. In fact, the decision to leave had been his. Carol had begged him to stay, pleaded with him not to leave her, but he crammed his clothes, some paperbacks and a toothbrush into his duffel bag, brushed her away and slammed the door.

    The snooze in the car had left him feeling stiff and in dire want of a shower. How long the tub upstairs had gone without scrubbing was anyone's guess, and he imagined layers of grime caked inside the basin, but it would have to do for now. His stomach rumbled and he wished he'd grabbed a snack or two before he'd left, but the few times in his life that he'd ever been this angry had taught him to strike while the iron was hot.

    Carol must have sat awake all night, biting her fingernails, he thought. Maybe she regretted acting like such a bitch, but he wouldn't hold his breath. Maybe he would give her a while longer to think about it. Not that he wanted to be spiteful, but if he didn't make a point, she would tighten her stranglehold on him. He would phone home and let her know where he