AT 6:07PM, SHE CAME HOME. She’d been living with him for a few weeks now. They’d dated for a month or so before that. She was beautiful—thin, blonde, blue eyes, an athletic build. She was up each morning crisply at 6AM for a run, back at 6PM in the evening to make his dinner. She was just the kind of girl you’d pick if you wanted the world to know you were a fully assimilated and red-blooded German patriot, and, knowing he’d struck gold, he always left the shades open to prove just that. Nothing to hide here, his every action was scripted to assure the world.
She loved him. He despised her. He didn’t show it, but Schmidt was convinced of it beyond a doubt. They always despise her. He’d spit on her pretty little carcass when he was done with her. That’s what men like him did to girls like her. Rose-colored glasses are bad for the heart. Schmidt had learned that while she was probably still in diapers.
“Who do you think you’re fooling, Ishmael?” Schmidt mumbled into his glass. “Not me, that’s for sure. You can’t stand the sight of her. You buy her the latest fashions and then burn with indignation when she wears them. You complement her for the very things you want to destroy.”
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