Peel These Shrimp Or Get Out

Summary

I liked my wife. I liked that she was a Bishop, I liked that our merger solidified the market share for both our conglomerates, but mostly, I liked that she was clinically, obsessively fastidious.

Camilla had germaphobia. She treated physical contact with the grim necessity of a surgeon scrubbing in. Her boundaries were electric fences.

So, when I watched her peel a jumbo shrimp at the company gala—stripping the shell with bare, manicured fingers—and drop the pink meat onto her male assistant's plate, I didn't make a scene.

I didn't say a word.