I guess it was guilt over the thought that seized me that morning—I’m going to divorce her, I just can’t stand it any more—which led to my carelessness.
I walked into the kitchen to get some coffee, and Audrey was sitting at the kitchen table, bent down to examine a wound on her leg. I almost recoiled in horror. It looked as though someone had taken the claw end of a hammer and gashed the outside of her calf. There was no blood, but it was ghastly.
“What happened?” I cried, and she looked up as though nothing in the world was wrong.
“I banged it on the coffee table.”
“My God! We should get you to the hospital, it looks terrible, maybe you need stitches,” I said, feeling a little queasy as I leaned over to look more closely. Strange. It was dry, like an old wound already half-healed, ugly and livid on her pale skin.
“I’ve already been to the doctor, it’s fine—it’s the prednisone, it makes my skin delicate. It will probably never heal completely. So much for shorts this summer.”
The predniso…
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