Part 1 – The Compliment He Could No Longer Pretend to Mean
When Adrian Keller told his wife that she had become difficult to look at, he delivered the sentence with the measured concern of a physician discussing an unfortunate diagnosis.
Late-afternoon sunlight filled the living room of their Spanish-style home in Santa Barbara, California, illuminating the terracotta floor, the cream linen curtains, and the framed coastal photographs that Adrian often accepted compliments for despite never having taken a single one.
Mara Bennett sat across from him wearing a pale gray dress she had purchased for their tenth wedding anniversary. Adrian had once said the color made her eyes appear brighter, although that compliment belonged to an earlier version of their marriage, when his criticism still arrived infrequently enough to resemble honesty.
He rested both hands on his knees.
“I do not want to be cruel, Mara, but you have stopped taking care of yourself.”
She changed down at the dress.
“What exactly does that mean?”
Adrian exhaled as though her question placed another burden upon him.
“You look tired almost constantly, your hair has lost its shape, and you no longer make an effort before we attend company events. Attraction cannot survive when only one person keeps trying.”
