Change of Pace

Tired of Fio yapping about how crappy her life is now? Then take a few minutes off and enjoy a teaser from one of her unpublished novels:

       Mik smiled to himself at the sound of his ex-wife's bedroom door slamming shut, then locking, and ambled down the hall to the room she'd asssigned him.
       As he expected, it was as bloodless as the rest of Sigrid's apartment--double bed, matching bureau, velour-upholstered chair, a color scheme of beige and navy. He took a look in the closet--a must for anyone who read the sort of books he did. A hanging travel bag had been pushed into the corner. He unzipped it, of course. Always have to check for the dead body.
       A couple of shirts, a suit, a pair of slacks,  tennies, shoes--a drop-in wardrobe for a sleepover guy. A surge of primeval anger ran through him, an anger he knew he had no right to. Nine years had passed since he and Sigrid had been man and wife, and he'd certainly had his share of relationships in the meantime so why couldn't she have played around a little herself?
       He pulled a gray wool suit out of the bag and measured it against himself. Sigrid's lover was a couple of inches taller than he was, maybe six-three. The anger surged through him again and he gritted his teath. Probably some damn Scandinavian Hercules--craggy jaw, cold eyed, blond.!
       Pinching the neck of a suit, he looked at the label--Armani. How bourgeois can you get?
       He stuffed the suit back in the bag, then frowned in thought.
       But why was it that lover boy's clothes were here and lover boy wasn't?