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She picked up underwear, oral dirty dishes, toys, old newspapers. She put away the bath towels, lined up the spices in the spice rack, took the old, bad food out of the refrigerator. Every night she sat cross-legged in front of the refrigerator, perusing its contents. Once, they had sex in common. That, and socializing. Sex, in many ways, was what had brought Laura and he together. Sure, oral they were both white, educated, and upper-middle class. They both believed in the superiority of all things New York. But it oral was their fucking that really clinched the deal, the negotiation which was their marriage. "Something to drink?" It was early. He knew the flight attendant really meant juice or coffee, but he ordered a Bloody Mary. There she was, with her full cart, leaning over to find a miniature bottle of vodka. She smiled at him. He wanted her to care that he was ordering a drink so early, he wanted her to feel his pain, see him as slightly on the edge. But what did she care if he had a drink first thing in the morning?
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