The Five Hour Husband
Language: en
Meredith allotted me exactly five hours of complimentary personal time each year. Dinner across from her deducted forty minutes. A visit to my father took two hours. Even our intimacy was metered, the invisible stopwatch running from the very second her lips brushed mine. She was the youngest senior equity partner at the city’s premier white-shoe law firm, commanding an hourly billing rate of nearly nine thousand dollars. For years, I convinced myself she was merely incapable of turning off her professional precision—that when you spend your life dividing reality into six-minute…