Ellen cracked her eyelids just enough to see, slipping out of the room and out of the house-for the hundredth time-a man that she only idly called her husband. As soon as she heard the door catch, she sat up in bed. "That's the last time you sneak out on me, Mister."  

The next day, she roamed the streets of Morocco, poking her head in one stall after another in the marketplace. There were people definitely selling all sorts of contraband, just not the illicit items she was looking for.  

Finally, exasperated, she footed it back to the guy with the sat phones, radios, and TVs. At least it was electronics gear. He worked out of a canvas tent. "You again. You look, you look, but you don't buy anything. Get out." He shooed her out of the store with his hands. 

"An Arab merchant chasing a wealthy American out of his store? In what alternate reality?" 

"It's reverse psychology." 

"I'm looking for something hi-tech. I just don't see it here." 

"What, exactly?" 

At least he was no longer chasing her out of the store. But he hadn't precisely backed away. His brutish off-balance pot-bellied body towered more than a foot over her like the shaky edifice of a building ready to topple at any moment. "I need to do some spying. Where would I go for something like that?" 

"Look no further, madam. You have come to precisely the right place." He pressed a button on his remote and all the counters flipped over or rotated and in a flash there was nothing in the store that wasn't spy-tech.  

"Oh, my God." 

"Now, you wish to invade a small country, or start a coup right here at home? I just want to know what kind of budget we're talking." 

"I need to follow my husband." 

"Not a problem. Home? Work? Everywhere, anywhere, twenty-four-seven?" 

"I just want a homing device that'll let me follow him to wherever he's going." 

"Ah. Not a problem." He showed her a watch. "Get him to wear this. And here is your tracker. If you prefer, I have virtually any type of wearable jewelry from which you'd care to choose. I can even give you things to stitch into his clothes." 

"I think the watch'll be fine. I've been threatening to buy him one." 

"Not a problem." He bagged everything up for her. "That'll be five thousand, American." 

"I thought we agreed I wasn't invading a country or starting a coup." 

He gestured helplessly. 

"Fine." She paid the man the money and slipped back into the street. 

No sooner was she out of the tent than Fidel jumped on his cell phone. "Just to let you know, your wife bought a watch with which she could track you." 

"'With which she could track you?' Who talks like that? '...a watch she could track you with!" 

"I'll have you know, I speak perfect English, unlike you Americans." 

Fidel felt his blood pressure rise at what he was hearing on the other end of the line. He dialed down the volume on the earpiece accordingly, and patted his perspiring forehead with a handkerchief. "What do you mean, 'Did I give her a discount?' I told you we were friends. I charged her double!"

***

"What are you doing?" 

"What does it look like I'm doing?" 

"It looks like you're standing in front of the bathroom mirror applying makeup." 

Jared sighed. "Look, if you can't get with the whole metrosexual thing, the least you can do is put on that evening dress I got you." He shut the door in her face. 

Ellen started to scream at him and decided better of it. She padded back into the living room and continued tidying up. Fifteen minutes later, she went and knocked on the bathroom door. "What's taking you?" 

"I'm giving myself a pedicure, honey. I'll be out any minute." 

If she kept clenching her jaw like this, she wasn't going to have any teeth to use in her old age. She stomped back to the kitchen, where she started scrubbing the counter-for the third time. 

Ten minutes later she tromped back to the bathroom door and pounded until her knuckles were raw. "Ignore me all you want; you can't camp out in the bathroom all night." 

He opened the door. "Such a drama queen. You want a front row seat to see me pluck my eyebrows, who am I to deny you?" 

"I've never known a man to spend more time dolling himself up." 

"Image is everything. How many times have I told you? Now, why don't you go put on that swank black V-neck gown I got you?" 

"We aren't even going out! We're eating in tonight." 

"It's all about the fantasy, darling. You're the one who wanted a romantic evening in." 

He had her there. "Fine, maybe if I can just get in the bathroom for five minutes." 

"Of course." 

She grabbed her dress and makeup bag from the bedroom and went into the bathroom, locking the door behind her. Fifteen minutes later, when she exited, he was going over the lacquered table that she had already buffed to perfection-just not well enough for him, apparently. 

"What in God's name are you doing to that table?" she said. "I polished it five times tonight." 

"It takes more than OCD to stay ahead of the dust in this God forsaken town. It's these damned windows open to the street. How these people can live like such savages is beyond me. Thank God I'm incapable of sweating in this heat, or I'd just slit my throat right now and get it over with." 

"How do I look?" 

"Commendable-under the circumstances." 

She knew what that meant. He wouldn't get within a ten foot pole of her. She may as well have leprosy. She sighed, "I'll get dinner." 

He hovered over her shoulders the whole time. "Everything on ice, like I told you. Excellent. You can forget slaving over a hot stove and doing romance in the same beat in this town." 

Ellen had to admit, the prawns on ice, and other exotic dishes-which he'd prepared himself-all meant to be served chilled, from the main course to the dessert, looked perfectly delectable. It would taste bland, she knew that. It was all presentation with him; all surface, no substance.  

He always got like this before he went out to work. A high end salesman, the sales didn't come often, just enough to turn him from something vaguely human into this monster. She supposed she couldn't blame him. The pressure of keeping up appearances was all the more acute in a down economy. He couldn't let people know he was struggling. If she had an ounce more compassion, she'd be supporting him more and not fighting him every step of the way. But she was getting tired playing second fiddle to his success. Besides, she was starting to think this alter ego was the real him. He got far more jazzed up playing the part.  

Tonight she would know the truth. She would follow him to the edge of the earth to find it out. She was not going to live a lie any longer. Maybe if she hadn't come from money, she would feel more secure about herself and his real motives. But she could just be his fallback plan. His way of maintaining this lifestyle even in the absence of sales-if that was even what he was-a salesman. The money did come in infrequently and in large sums, which supported his story; the occasional big sale, he said, landed the one whale to keep him going for another six months. Still... Something didn't sit right. Something more than just the two of them being forever out of sync. 

The last dish set, he pulled out a chair for himself, thinking nothing of sliding out a seat for her; no one could accuse him of being a chauvinist.  

She set the watch in front of him.  

His eyes lit up. "It's absolutely divine." It had the big watch face which was all the rage. And her husband was not one for flying in the face of fashion. She figured he'd like it. He immediately donned the timepiece. "It's just a couple seconds behind. Give me a moment to adjust the second hand." 

She rolled her eyes as she took her own seat. 

Later, when she was doing the dishes, he came out of the bedroom in his tux and, as he toyed with his cufflinks, said, "Got to go, darling." 

She dropped the knives and forks in the sink with a clang. "Who does business at these hours?" 

"The rich and famous, and this is me at their beck and call." He held his hands wide so she could appreciate the this-is-me part. Adjusting his tie at the neck, he said, "They don't keep normal hours like the rest of us mortals. That would be entirely beneath them. Far too common." 

He stood an awkward distance away and craned his long neck toward her like a heron. She growled as he gave her a peck on the cheek-making sure not to get any of her soapsuds on him. "Toodles."  

She waited to hear the bolt catch on the door, then she wiped her hands, fished her tracker out of her purse, and darted out of the flat behind him.

***

Ellen didn't like where this was headed. The tracker was pointing her into a notorious nightclub for... It could just be rumor. She'd see for herself. 

They didn't want to let her in. Not a good sign. She slipped the guy at the door five thousand, American-the price for anything in Morocco if you were American. He let her pass. 

She tried to find her courage as she snaked by the Ringling Brother's freak show. There was only one freak she was interested in. There. Just when she thought she'd gone blind processing all the alternative lifestyles. There was Jared cross-dressing as a French maid, and hitting on one of the guys. Maybe that was more than cross-dressing. Maybe that was transvestism. Or worse. Was he squirreling money away for a sex change? She nearly lost consciousness. 

She backed out the way she'd come in. You wanted to know. Why did you want to know? Maybe this is the lie, Ellen. Maybe he makes his money as a high-priced gigolo. Maybe this is someone else's fantasy he's living out. He did say he was in sales. He just didn't say he was selling his body. Ironically, she felt relieved at the thought. She could handle being married to a gigolo. But it still meant she was living a lie. This was the life he fancied. This was the thing that made him feel most alive.  

No sooner was she out the door, than Jared turned to Blaire. "Well, how did I do?"  

The handsome Blaire, with the flattop haircut and the seventies-sideburns, a fellow agent who he'd actually done a mission or two with once upon a time, said, "She'll never be the same. You'll be lucky to be kissing anything but a zombie from here on out." 

"What's she gonna do? When the truth's this ugly, it's just easier to live the fantasy." 

"She shouldn't have to." 

"What else do I have to give her?" 

"If she can handle this, she might just be able to tolerate the truth." 

"The woman spends her days drawing dragons and devas. Trust me; she's not in the market for the truth." 

He went to finish his drink. But it didn't smell right. That acute olfactory sense of his that played well to his metrosexual alter ego's lifestyle and his gourmet affectations. "Why, Blaire... After all we've been through." 

"Nothing personal, Jared. Just business. You know how it is." 

"Yeah, I suppose I do," Jared said, slipping the knife under his sleeve between Blaire's ribs straight into his heart, and resting him on the counter. The knife had already retracted to its cocked position. The heart stopped like that; there wouldn't be much bleeding. No one would notice in this dark hell hole, certainly. He was just another passed out drunk as far as they were concerned.  

Jared slipped the bartender five thousand bucks for the hassle of carting the corpse upstairs to a sofa where he could "sleep it off" in a back office, or to throw him out in a dumpster, more likely, the second Jared's back was turned. All the better for Jared. 

And he exited the bar with just a nod from the bartender. Pity nothing with Ellen was ever so clean.

*** 

Back at the flat, Ellen returned to her cleaning. There was always more cleaning to do in Morocco, with the winds carrying the perpetual dusts. It was good cover for her OCD, and for having an anal-retentive husband who was a perfectionist about such things. In this country, everyone was just like her, so there was nothing to feel ashamed of. Still, she was living a lie, and that much was no longer just a nagging suspicion. 

She had just one hope. To win him over she would have to make her life with him more enchanting than that other life. And she could do it, too. She knew just what he liked. She could press his buttons far better than any stranger could. One day he'd come home to her not as some act, but as the real Jared, and a real husband. She knew she was lying to herself; that she was choosing the fantasy over reality. But from a young girl, when had she not?