When he spoke, all she heard was a distant hum, something like the dull resonance of the big bang, or the whine from the empty center of the Milky Way. She knew he was saying words, could see his lips moving, knew he was talking to her about the Benz, the mortgage on the lake house, a vacation to the Mayan Riviera, their daughter’s credit card, his mother’s third divorce, but she couldn’t hear him, hadn’t been able to hear him for months. While she watched his lips move, she thought about the feel of the terrycloth robe on her back, and the way the material irritated her nipples, making them erect. She saw him looking and immediately pulled the robe tighter around herself. She thought maybe he was now talking about who had last taken the trash out. She thought that was his job. She thought she didn’t care about the trash. But she certainly cared when it started to stink, and shouldn’t the man take care of things when they started to smell bad? As a pastiche, I’m not sure the above is entirely fair to the source text. Another not entirely fair thing I thought/wrote about the book in question was: I have not read any John Updike, but now feel as though I have.