Daft's wife chased him out of the driveway, screaming "I wish you dead. I wish I had never met you. Die." Punctuating her latest epithet, she quickly grabbed an old hand-weight from the unused pile next to his office and chucked it at his car. The weight landed in the middle of his Turbo-Saab-canvas-convertible top, and quickly sagged until it tore a hole the size of her angry fist.
Unfazed, Daft continued to lurch the car backward off the driveway and coax it onto the main road. He had known that his marriage was a single shred of wheat. But he began to consider that he might truly be unloved. And not only that, he was acutely aware that Sex is the only reason to Do anything. Let alone: create, think, innovate, build, dream. And Love is the only good reason to sex. (There are other reasons, but it's the only good one.)
Daft was failing. And he had the distinct sense that it was about to get much worse.
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