Becky DeGeorge, in the bloom of her first full day as Michael’s wife, walked out of the hotel lobby holding her husband’s hand. She breathed in the cool night air, the first fresh air she had inhaled all day. In the brief span of their marriage, she and Michael had made love several times and taken two steamy showers together. They had poked their heads out for an obligatory but, at last, final brunt with the families. They had begged
off the trip to Opus One, scurried back upstairs, and popped a last bottle of champagne. Michael had put on a sex video and as they watched the film they played out some unusual and exciting roles. He seemed to have fantasies about wearing women’s clothes.
