How many times he tried to leave Rosalie. It was absurd to the max, their marriage in the first place. How it lasted eight years, he did not know. Their therapist, a sprite of a man with a yoga body, said that theirs was a house of mutual revulsion.
It was true. They never really liked each other. They met cute, at a gallery in Providence. He was helping a friend and she wanted a job. With no college degree, Lars knew they wouldn’t hire her. For some reason, he didn’t tell her no, not right away. Maybe he was bored. There was something, though, about this Rosalie. She didn’t call herself an autodidact, but she came close. Baudrillard and Canterbury Tales. The semiotics of Ted Koppel. She was bookish, awkward, articulate, and ready to engage in vigorous conversation. She wasn’t hard to look at. Not his type though; shoulder-length puffy hair, maroon with what he soon learned was henna. It looked dry and tangled. Something retro about her lips, small and Cupid’s Bow, the vermillion pronounced and maybe tattooed.
Rothko's Rolodex 
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