Never underestimate the sanctity for some people of the most trivial things, from the wine used to cook to the way to open a pack of cigarettes. -- Anon Guest
Being married to Blake was like... being pecked to death by finches. The really tiny ones that you could never believe were a real bird. And though their tiny little beaks didn't leave much of an impact on their own, they could whittle away a loaf of bad bread all the same. That's what Carey felt like, now. Every day. A loaf of bad bread, pecked into nothing by tiny birds.
She hardly felt it, of course. It's easy to ignore the pecking of a finch. Blake's words were just as good at taking herself away as the birds' beaks were at nipping away crumbs of bread. And it was always the little things. The fine details. And the way he said it.
"That's a silly way of doing it. Here. Do it this way. It's better and it's faster." or, "No. Just... no..." or a simple, exasperated sigh of evident frustration. Carey would try to learn it. Try to amend her habits, but her muscle memory betrayed her, and she was forever clumsy at everything that Blake taught her to do.