Read Through the Grinder for Free Online Page B

dessert. The woman had placed her manicured hand on her date’s, lifted it off the table, and brought it down underneath.
    Surprise had registered on the man’s features as she’d made him feel what was there beneath her little black dress—and what wasn’t.
    To the other diners, nothing had looked amiss. But the Genius had known what was happening beneath that tablecloth, and what would come next. A hastily requested check, the flagging of a cab. Fumbling in the back seat on the ride back to her building—and then the quick and feral mating.
    An invitation had followed, of course, but the man had declined. His departure in a hired car had been expected…a signal for the Genius to act.
    The mechanical bing of the elevator sounded, and the doors opened on the fifteenth floor.
    With gloved hands, the Genius pulled the note from a pocket, opened it, and glanced at the first few lines.
Inga,
    I saw you at the restaurant with him.
    It drove me wild.
    Meet me by your car right now, bring this note with you.
    You can exchange it for a special surprise….
    After folding the note once more, the Genius slipped it beneath the front door of Inga’s condo, knocked twice, then quickly strode to the stairwell.
    When she read it, she’d come. The Genius knew this. For him, the Slut would do anything.

     

    “ M ARITAL advice?” I asked, repeating Quinn’s words more out of shock than premature deafness.
    Next to me at the dinner table, Quinn shifted uneasily in his Chippendale chair. Elbows went off the table then on again, and suddenly he was acting as though he’d grown too big for the small dining room.
    Okay, this was serious. Quinn had never before acted this awkward around me. The man was cooler than arctic ice—and his tall, broad-shouldered form usually moved with the intense ease and confidence of an Alaskan wolf.
    I tried to guess what was coming, but didn’t dare. Over the last few months, we mostly spoke about his work, or New York trivia, or the coffeehouse. Occasionally, he’d bring up his children—Molly, a six-year-old girl, and Jeremy, an eight-year-old boy—both of whom he always talked about in glowing terms. His wife he seldom mentioned, and whenever I’d open the topic of his spouse, he’d close it fast, usually with a negative quip along the lines of (on a good day) “they say marriage is a challenge, but I’m fairly sure ascending Everest would have been less effort,” and (on a bad day) “let’s just say my wife is an entrée that seemed promising on the menu but came to the table cold.”
    “Maybe that didn’t come out right,” said Quinn, rubbing the back of his neck. “What I’m trying to say is…or rather ask is…when did you know it was time to…give up?”
    “Whoa…” This was a little more than I’d expected to deal with tonight. I took a deep breath, reached for my wine glass, and considered it a notable accomplishment to have stopped myself from chugalugging the entire bottle of Pinot.
    “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m putting you on the spot—”
    “No, no. It’s fine…I was about to tell you, ‘I know what you’re going through,’ but the truth is, I don’t. Have you ever heard John Bradshaw talk about how every happy family is happy in the same way—but every unhappy family is unhappy in its own unique way?”
    “No.”
    “Well, he’s the dysfunctional family expert—and I believe that idea applies to marriage, too.”
    “I’m not sure I follow…”
    “Every couple’s marriage plays out very similar chords, but it’s own unique discords. You see?”
    Quinn shook his head. “I’m not sure.”
    “Well…take my own marriage. Matteo and I hadn’t stopped loving each other. We just needed to stop hurting each other. It might be the same for you—or it might be something else entirely. That’s why I’m not sure if my experience is even valid. Do you want to tell me more about your own marriage?”
    “No,” he said flatly. “Not