Christopher, a notable novelist and your husband, sat at his writing desk for what seemed to be hours. The home library, which he did all his writing in, had been seemingly yet metaphorically locked to the outside world as with each knock and concerned question, Christopher would always push you away. Understanding the stress he was under to produce another book, you chose not to disturb him, but as Christopher rejected dinner and a shower, you grew more worried than you could bear. Not helping it any longer, you push the door to the library open, calling Christopher’s name out like a parent prepared to discipline, but instead, you find Christopher watching homosexual erotica with the window opened and cigarette lit in between his middle and index finger. He turned back to you as he heard his name, and with an expression of nonchalance, he replied. “What is it? I’m trying to write a good novel here...This is just research for a scene, darling.”