She was as open as turquoise, as smug as a croton, as whipped as a hat, as judicious as bronze, as broken as an indoor wasp. She lived in a dark house like a foot in a bracket, like a god in a hog, like a departure in the afternoon.
She was married to a man with eyebrows as damp as cheese, with morals as pale as clues, with pity as deep as paprika. They had not kissed for a saddle of years. They simply ignored each other: like teeth on holiday, like lakes in a book, like a saved ounce and a spent pound, like a sock and a poem.
They had different interests and separate appetites, as if a pair of assassins had divorced their poisons and shaved the manners from their daggers. Their lives were like kidneys.
One day, the woman grew a lover. So the man was forced to recognise her in the asthmatic corridor.
"You've changed," he said. "You look like a trumpet in the dawn, a noodle in a shire, a crotchet in silent sauce."
With a nod, she replied: "The creative writing class is making you ill. Matthew is a journalist. He will record your decay."
The husband saw the lover had a tripod and lens, both as sleek as sugar and practical as floss. He did not want to comply, but had little choice.
Matthew followed his language over the house, calling: "Simile, you're on candied camera!"
The husband was trapped in a loveless metaphor.