W…ritten by
jaron summers © 2026
Dr. Mort S. Rejoiner closed his folder. “That concludes our work,” he said.
The Smiths sat in silence. The room felt emptied rather than resolved. Whatever Rejoiner was selling—certainty, choreography, courage—it had not convinced them. Not enough. Not safely.
“This feels reckless,” Mrs. Smith said.
“Most cures do,” Rejoiner replied. “Besides that’s why you pay me the big bucks.”
“Our children—” she began.
“Forget the children,” he said, already making a note.
The Smiths stared at him.
“Children survive divorce all the time,” Rejoiner continued, untroubled. “They do not survive lovelessness nearly as well. Adults confuse the two.”
Mr. Smith stood. “Thank you for your time, Doctor.”
Rejoiner nodded. “If nothing changes,” he said mildly, “nothing improves.”
They left. The marriage appeared finished.
An hour later, Mr. Smith checked into his luxury hotel. It was designed for tasteful despair: soft lighting, thick carpet, silence that absorbed thought. He poured a drink and sat on the edge of the bed, rehearsing his grievances out of habit more than conviction.
Across the city, Mrs. Smith sat alone in their house, surrounded by evidence of a life paused rather than ended. Family photos. Children asleep. A silence louder than argument.
She remembered Rejoiner’s voice—not comforting, not kind, but irritatingly confident.
Stop waiting.
Just after midnight, Mr. Smith heard his door open.
He had not locked it.
Mrs. Smith entered quietly, as if returning to a place she still owned. She carried a bottle of bourbon and wore a smile he had not seen in years—one that did not ask permission or apologize for existing.
“I thought I’d say goodbye,” she said.
He laughed softly. “That seems dangerous.”
“Yes,” she said. “That’s why I came.”
They drank. They talked. Not carefully. Not strategically. She touched him. He did not retreat. When she kissed him, he did not hesitate.
She stepped back.
“This is where you say no,” she said. “Or yes.”
He looked at her for a long moment—then smiled, the way people do when they stop defending themselves.
“Yes.”
She bound him—not cruelly, not tightly, but decisively—to the absurdly expensive bed. He did not resist. He exhaled, as if relieved of a long responsibility.
What followed did not require description.
It was not polite.
It was not negotiated.
It was unmistakable.
At some point, the sounds escaping the room caused a neighboring guest to reconsider his own marriage, a valet to pause mid-step, and a dog five blocks away to howl in confusion.
By morning, Mr. Smith was untied, smiling, and entirely undone.
“Well?” Mrs. Smith asked.
He stretched. “America has it backward.”
They canceled the attorneys.
Postscript: A Note on Misunderstanding
When the story circulated, critics reacted predictably.
Some accused it of endorsing violence.
Others claimed it betrayed feminism.
One suggested banning duct tape.
None mentioned consent.
None noticed that every decisive act was chosen. That surrender was voluntary. That desire had merely been misfiled under manners.
Dr. Mort S. Rejoiner, for his part, did not respond.
He continued his practice quietly.
Couples arrived furious.
Couples left offended.
Some returned married.
He kept meticulous notes. Dr. Rejoiner was not interested in being liked. He was interested in reunions.