The Great Gatsby Dialectical Journal

In the preceding month, whilst Tom had come home each night to an empty wine bottle, or a half-filled glass of Whiskey, and looked in on his wife, every time asleep in their bed, the man had also drunk. Not to excess, but just enough to dull the pain of the frozen relationship with Lila, and their failing marriage.

He'd have beer and scotch on his breath, and often scratches on his arms, scrapes on his face, or bruises on his knuckles, from where'd he'd taken exception to a comment made by a fellow officer in the Bar all frequented, or gotten himself into a fight because a member of the public had looked at him the wrong way when he'd stumbled to his car. Better them than Lila.

The latest altercation had been with a Sergeant in his division

As was, most likely, the deep breath he released when she said yes, and he closed his eyes in relief. "That's great,

He couldn't, as each time it crossed his mind, it started as it used to, with soft kisses, and loving words, but then swiftly morphed to images of her on her knees choking on his cock, and tears streaming from her eyes.

That's when he became aroused, and he lived in hope that the celebration of the recreation of that romantic dinner when he'd proposed, would help bring the gentler feelings and emotions he'd held toward her at the time, and enable them to make love again. Love which didn't include his desire to place his hands around her neck, and watch her eyes pop out of her head as he squeezed, and for the woman to squeal in pain.

There were whores for that purpose, whom he'd begun to frequent, but it shouldn't be done to the woman you loved. Or the woman who loved you. If truth be told, it wasn't for her sake that Tom demonstrated restraint, but his own. He needed Lila's hugs, kisses, smiles and warm embraces because, to lose them, would be akin to deeming him not worthy, and, to Tom Ross, that was not acceptable. Lila was his.

The night couldn't come quickly