Rina would be surprised when she came home and found his things gone.
No more would she call him half a man.
She'd find out just how much of a man he was when the lawyer served her with divorce papers.
She'd know then that she couldn't push him around.
And she'd never look at him again the way she had the first night they were married – with pity and yet contempt, and worst of all, the knowledge in her eyes that she saw into him deeply, laying bare the very secrets of his soul, secrets that he kept even from himself.
He had come into the darkened bedroom, holding in his hand a tray on which stood an iced bottle of champagne and two glasses.
"I have come bearing wine for my beloved."
They began to make love. Gently and beautifully, the way he had always known it would be, for he was a virgin.
And there was comfort in the womanly curve of her body on the bed, lying there so passive and undemanding.
He had even begun to compose a poem to her beauty when he felt her searching hand against his flesh.
For the tiniest fraction of a moment, he froze, startled by her alien fingers.
Then he relaxed, for her touch was so light and gentle that he was scarcely aware of it. He felt a tremor shake her body, then another, and a sudden burst of heat seemed to rise from her.
Then a cry came from deep within her and she pulled him down toward her, her hands ripping off the bottom part of his pajamas.
No longer was she suppliant and gentle, no longer did she care what he felt or needed, she was caught up in a frenzy of her own.
Her fingers hurt him as she tried to guide him, to force him into her.
Suddenly, a wild terror began to run through him. A fear of the demanding sexuality of her body, which had lain dormant, waiting only for this moment to feed upon his manhood and devour him.
In a near panic, he tore himself free and stood trembling near the bed.
He tried to pull the torn pajamas around him and heard the sound of her breathing become quieter.
There was a rustle of the sheets and he looked down at her.
She had turned over on her side and was staring up at him, the sheet carelessly draped over her hips.
Her breasts were heavy, the nipples still swollen with passion. Her eyes seemed to flame their way into him.
"Are you the kind of man some people say you are?"
He felt the fire burning its way into his cheeks.
He had not been unaware of the snide remarks made behind his back, but ordinary people did not understand his absorption in his work.
"No!" he said quickly.
"Then what kind of man are you?"
He fell to his knees beside the bed and looked at her.
"Please," he cried. "Please, you've got to understand.
I married you because I love you but I'm not like the others.
My mother says I’m more nervous and high strung."
She didn't answer and he saw the horrible combination of pity, contempt and knowledge come fleetingly into her eyes.
"Don't look at me like that," he begged. "It will be better the next time. I won't be so nervous.
I love you. I love you."
He felt her hand touch his head gently, then slowly stroke his temples. Gradually, his tears subsided and he seized her hands, kissing them gratefully. "It will be better, darling," he promised.
But it was never any better.
There was something about the complete femaleness of her body, her terrifying sexuality, that frightened him into complete impotency.
"What did you say?" The words took him from the past into the present. He looked up. The other customer, the young man in the yellow jacket, was speaking to him. "I thought you said something to me. I'm sorry."
Claude felt foolish.
There was no doubt that he had spoken. Very often he did while lost in thought.
He began to feel embarrassed. "I did," he said, quickly trying to cover his embarrassment. "I said it turned into a rather nasty day, didn't it?"
The young man's eyes went past him to the window, then back.
"Yes," he said politely. "It sure did."
Claude looked at him. He seemed like a nice enough young man. Handsome, too, in a rough sort of way. Probably an actor, down on his luck, who'd stopped in to nurse a beer until the rain stopped.
He picked up his mug. It was empty again.
"Let me buy you a drink," he said.
The boy nodded. "I'd like another beer. Thanks."
"Bartender, a beer for the young gentleman," Claude called. He tapped his mug.
"And I’ll have another of these." It wasn't until three drinks later, when he saw Rina's car turn downtown onto Sunset, that he got the idea.
After all, there were quite a few things he wanted to take with him and he couldn't carry all of them alone.
After he rang the bell the second time he remembered it was Thursday and all the servants were off.