Dr. Kenneth Johnson was 38—right on the cusp of his horizon. He could see over that bit of sea, hidden by the coeruleus effect.

His wife Margorie was one of these women who hung out at the bible studies; she would join the book clubs in 20 years. It all had to do with a plan.

Johnson met her, on advice from his ailing mother, who told him that taking care of people would be a lonely business.

He was just beginning to enjoy himself in the twilight of his bachelorhood.

Johnson cared less about his patients and even less about his work.

With a tight schedule and overwhelming hours, Johnson had become his job. His mother was horrified to find-out he had cut-down his responsibilities, so that he could play poker in the evenings and more golf during the day.

His latest hobby was scuba diving. It emerged, right when he got married. Then he sank beneath the surface. His wife turned-out to be a pill freak, and her contrite confessions during church (to a non-judgmental god) was the penance of habitual fornication.

He noticed something was wrong on the airplane. Her palms were sweaty in the temperature-controlled cabin. When she came back from the bathroom, her eyes were glassy.

He mentioned this to her, and she put her sunglasses on, and told him she was going to take a nap.

It was a long trip to the island. Margorie didn’t swim, so Johnson would have lots of time to think about what had just happened.

He looked through her purse and found the prescription pain killers. All of his work, would be transferred wealth to his wife after the divorce. He couldn’t believe it—he was so smart and yet, so stupid.

When they got to the hotel, they did what newly married couples do. To say the least, it was a letdown. Johnson wasn’t really a drinker, but he poured himself a stiff one, anyway, and walked out to the beach. There was a speedboat moored to the dock.

To be continued…

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