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Repulsion
It was on her honeymoon that Marion first noticed something peculiar about her husband; it seemed George had
suddenly developed an unusual habit. He began sniffing at things, as though searching for the source of some
peculiar odor. He only did this, Marion noticed, when he thought she wasn’t looking at him. But it was her
honeymoon – how could she not look at him? At least he wasn’t sniffing at her, thank God. If he had sniffed
at her, with that puzzled, almost angry expression, she would have run and locked herself in the bathroom.
It reminded her of pictures in the newspapers lately, of that nasty German fellow, his unpleasant face
blatantly outraged, as if the man to his left hadn’t changed his underwear or brushed his teeth for a year,
while the man to his right had two dead fish under his arms.
Throughout their courtship, Marion had never seen George display such odd behavior. “What is it, George?”
she asked finally. “What are you doing that for?”
“Doing what?”
“Sniffing things. You’re always sniffing at things.”
“Am I?”
“Well what do you mean? Of course you are!”
“Look, Marion, I don’t want to alarm you, but I think there’s a dead animal in the walls.
I knew I shouldn’t have rented this cabin.”
“But George,” said Marion, “I don’t smell a thing.”
“Really?” he said, and looked at her. “How curious,” he said.
After a few days George stopped sniffing the walls and floorboards and began sniffing himself.
Marion noticed other odd behaviors as well. He was washing his hands four or five times an hour,
scrubbing them with a foul-smelling industrial soap he’d picked up somewhere. Once during their meal
Marion saw him discreetly raise his fingers to his nose. They were scrubbed raw.
“George, honey,” she said, “after dinner, let’s drive into town and go dancing.”
That night she pressed close to him in bed. He lay on his back, arms folded across his chest.
Marion slowly brought up her leg against his thigh. “George, honey,” she whispered, “let’s do it again,
like we did it that other time. It felt so good.”
“I have to use the bathroom,” he answered curtly, and bounded from the bed. Marion lay quietly and waited.
Soon they would buy a little house, with a garden and a fence. After a few minutes she heard taps gush. George
stayed in the shower for thirty minutes. Finally she heard the waterfall cease. She slipped deeper down into
the blankets, tucking them under her chin and watching the doorway. Only George didn’t come through it.
Eventually Marion began to worry. She got out of bed and crept along the hallway toward the bathroom.
The door was slightly ajar. Marion peered in.
George was naked and standing in front of the mirror, staring at his reflection. He seemed totally
oblivious to everything else; certainly he’d forgotten Marion. Just as she was about to call his name,
he raised his hand and slapped himself across the cheek. The pale skin flushed red. Then he did it again,
slapping himself across the other cheek.
Marion could hardly believe it. Mama, she thought to herself, Mama, you said George would do
some funny things on our honeymoon. She didn’t want to see anymore. She went back to bed, sighing,
thinking soon she would have to leave this fairy-tale cabin. George had to get back to the government,
and she would be starting a secretarial job at the Beemans chewing gum factory. She hoped soon they might
have a baby. Then she frowned, remembering George’s behavior. Her open eyes stared at the ceiling.
Guy Wilkinson was born in Liverpool, England, raised in Saskatchewan,
and now lives with his wife and three children in Vancouver, where he
teaches literature at Langara College. He has had stories and poems
published in various U.S. and Canadian magazines and is currently
working on a novel..
Email: Guy Wilkinson
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