Reed Demarco hates his wife.  This is not your petty hatred, your stomping out cigarettes on the sidewalk kind of hatred, your scuffing across a freshly mopped floor with muddy boots kind of hatred.  This is hatred, the kind of hatred that makes passerby stare in mystified silence, their eyes locked on an activity, and that activity, today, is Reed Demarco’s car, which has the word ILL carved into the hood in rather large letters, and even the old man hobbling ahead lets out a small grunt of recognition as he peers through his coaster-sized spectacles.

 There is little question about who did this.  As Reed turns the key of the Mustang, he realizes that he forgot to listen for any faint rustle which may indicate a bomb could be hiding under his seat and blow him to smithereens, which could move his groin where his face used to be, as she informed him.  This is paranoia, he tells himself.  She doesn’t even know how to make a bomb, let alone know where to get one.  This is paranoia.

 Reed Demarco is still alive, driving down Eighth Avenue with his hood in disarray.

 ”ILL!” Shouts a group of teenagers from the sidewalk, their hands cupped around their lips to accentuate the loudness.

 Reed does not acknowledge this mockery, nor does he find a parking spot easily.  He waits for an elderly man to motivate his ass through the door of a station wagon, watches it bounce around the air a few times, finally resting on the bench seat.  The old man will not give up the spot easily, taking his sweet time to get moving, coughing into a handkerchief, puttering out of the spot like a frightened gazelle.

 Reed Demarco cannot remember the last time he had sex.  He can picture his wife’s soft bottom sandwiched against the headboard like a delicate cotton swab, her blond hair splayed about in a hazy jungle damp with hairspray and perspiration, yet he cannot accurately remember the date of such an occurrence.  So long ago it was, that he had a beard sprouting from his face, his features chiseled around it as if he were a gigantic piece of granite, his nose pointing outward, daring all to stare.  He is now, however, an avid shaver, running an electric razor against his face every morning before work, pressing the cold contraption closer to his cheek with each swipe.  The device hums like his wife’s vibrator.