Later that night he comes to my bed. ‘My bride,’ he slurs as he climbs in beside me. I smell the drink on his breath and the stale reek of his sweat. God shouldn’t smell like that. I lie there stiffly, waiting for the touches that I know will come. My insides shrivel. He puts his hand on me. He runs it over my breasts and belly. I bite my tongue to stop myself from screaming. But then his hand stills. It lies there, heavy on my thigh. His breathing deepens and I dare to hope he has fallen asleep.
Then he is snoring and grunting and he fills the bed with the stench of his wind. I lie there all night, not daring to move. I would rather a sleepless night than have him wake.
When the first pale light of morning seeps into the room, I slide quietly from the bed. He has kicked off the blankets and I see he is naked. I look down at him, at his face squashed into the pillow and at the white roll of his belly slumped over the soft worm of his manhood. I want to laugh out loud. Beth was right. Of course he is not God.
He is just a pitiful man.