I imagine this is what a drug addict feels like, craving something another part of themself wants desperately to avoid. What a way to live.

 

My fingertip rests gently against the play button, but I hesitate. I can’t guess how many times I’ve watched the video, and I can’t calculate the toll I’ll pay for watching it again. It hurts me every time, and yet I keep coming back for more because I can’t resist. It’s such a sweet memory.

 

Bitter-sweet now.

 

I’m not aware of coming to a decision one way or another, but then I’ve hit the button. It seems like my finger acted of its own accord. I know better.

 

Susan appears on the screen, blowing a kiss toward the camera. My heart clenches. She’s wearing dark sunglasses, and her blonde hair is bouncing in the wind. She lifts a can of beer to her forehead, reminding me how hot it was. Behind her, the sunlight catches the white crests of breakers on the gulf. It was a beautiful day, and she was as beautiful right then as any woman had ever been.

 

She leans in toward the camera and through the clenched teeth of her gleaming smile, she says, “Cheeeese.”

 

Hearing her voice pushes me over the edge. I shudder out a ragged breath as the tears start to flow. I remember when this house was filled with that voice, alive with her presence. Those were the days.

 

* * *

 

A minute later, I lean in through the bedroom door and see her. The tears are still coming, and now a small sob slips out. I bite it back, though I don’t know why. We’re the only two in the house, and she couldn’t hear me if I started wailing like a baby.

 

Her face, her beautiful face, is hidden completely inside the next-gen VR helmet. Her arms and legs, which looked so strong that day on the beach, are wasting away in the compression sleeves of the tactile suit.

 

My legs suddenly propel me forward without my consent. I take several fast steps in her direction, and for a second, I think I’m going rip the helmet right off her head, drag her back into the real world. Again.

 

But I stop myself, knowing where that will lead. She’d hate me for it, refuse to get help, and plug herself back in.

 

Because I can’t help myself, I wonder where she is in there? Could she be back on the beach, reliving that day from the video? Except maybe she’s sipping a fancy cocktail instead of that cheap beer. Maybe some cute cabana boy brought it to her. Maybe he’s rubbing her shoulders now. Maybe…

 

I turn and hurry away from the room, shaking my head in an effort to chase away those toxic thoughts.

 

Unfortunately, my effort fails.

 

* * *

 

A half hour later, after tromping about fifty laps through the house on anxiety-driven autopilot, I return to the bedroom. I pause at the door, staring at the reflective surface of Susan’s magic helmet. I try to picture my wife — and not the cabana boy. But fail again.

 

I’m holding my nine iron.

 

I shift the club from one hand to the other, wiping my palms on the back pockets of my jeans. I’m sweating. And I’m breathing too much. And my heart is right up in my throat, pounding like a lumberjack in a log chopping competition.

 

I’m so revved up, I think I might actually pass out. But then something strange happens. One more moment passes, and suddenly I’m calm again. I’m no longer grappling with my decision — it’s made.

 

Without any further hesitation, I step into the room, raising the golf club as I move. I bring it down once with all my strength, and once is enough.

 

The sound of the impact frightens me badly. Then, instead of abating, that fear swells. I’m terrified of what will happen now.

 

Her hands are shaking as she reaches up to remove the helmet. Her eyes find me first, and I read confusion on her face. Then she spots the machine, the technological marvel she spent half a year’s salary on, which I just demolished. We don’t have the money to replace it.

 

She’ll probably just end up back in the VR salons, paying for sessions by the hour. That’s how she got started, how she got addicted in the first place. But maybe she won’t.

 

Regardless, she’ll rage at me for this. And that’s okay. At this point, I think I’d prefer anger to the utter indifference she’s shown me for so long. I’d rather have her screaming at me than shuffling past me like I don’t exist on her way to the bathroom.

 

Even if she ends up hating me, I’ll still love her. I always have. That’s why I did it.