She smiled, then opened the envelope of photographs. On the back of each was a date, she whispered, “They correspond,” then excusing herself she rose and went off to use the bathroom, while, as she knew he would, he thumbed through the pictures, checking some of the pictures of her damaged backside with the sentences in the book, the worst on his return from his time in Armagh, 75 with the whip. The picture showed her soft skin marked and welted, blood dripping from the marks and her in tears. She returned to the bed, he had that set in his hand and said, “take me through it then?” She shrugged, then said slowly, “what`s to tell, we had been married for seven of the eight years, by the second year it had become our ritual, his detachments, well you know the frustrations of being away, he lost a friend while in Armagh, and I suffered for it, I knew I would, I was his sponge, his way of clearing his mind, That night her rang me from the dock on his way home, told me when to expect. And these are my clothes. Do you like them?"The man gracefully rose from the table. He loved sunny, shining mornings like this. His brawny, hairy arms bulged forth from a sleeveless, ankle-length floral print dress several sizes too small for his bulky frame. The man's feet, narrowly squeezed into silver-accented women's sandals, lithely danced across the kitchen floor towards the wife. She could just make out the outline of her bra and underwear beneath the tightly-worn dress. The wife cringed at the silhouetted bulge of the man's clearly unfeminine crotch. "Men do not wear dresses," she said to him coldly. "Your name is Herbert and not Helen. Now go put on your own clothes this instant."The man had never liked his wife's cold, scolding voice. He liked it even less on a sunny morning while wearing his favourite dress. He stood there staring quizzically at her for a moment."Men do not wear dresses," she repeated more loudly this time."I am not a man," he answered in a forced.
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