The first thing I tasted was blood. It bloomed on my tongue, hot and metallic, a sharp contrast to the expensive Bordeaux we had consumed hours earlier.
The second thing I tasted was betrayal.
My husband, Richard, stood over me in the center of our cavernous master bedroom. The sleeves of his tailored crisp white shirt were rolled up precisely to the forearms, revealing the expensive platinum watch I had bought him for our third anniversary. His breathing was perfectly calm. His chest rose and fell with a steady, rhythmic grace, as if he had only accidentally knocked over a crystal highball glass instead of striking his wife across the face.
