As we entered the vestibule, the bulb at the top of the stairs flickered. There was a surge of blinding light before it sputtered and the stairwell went black.

I felt his arms encircle me, pulling me close.

A shudder of revulsion eclipsed my being as he pressed himself against me.

“Honey..” I wriggled. His breath quickening with each attempt I made to free myself. “You’ll wake the neighbors.”

“So what? We’re married, aren’t we?” He whispered teasingly, the heat of his breath on my neck causing my flesh to crawl.

“That’s not the point!” I quipped, as my body steeled itself against him, betraying any notion I had of concealing my repulsion.

His arm slipped from my waist as swiftly as if I had slapped him.

“Then what IS the point?” His wounded tone- impaling.

Nails driven deeper still, by heavy footfalls, as he retreated up the stairs.

This was written in response to the photo prompt provided by Crimson’s Creative Challenge.