I walked into the bedroom, without warning. Just walked in. I was already despairing, yet I hoped against hope that the jacket belonged to a plumber or an electrician or a delivery boy, though I knew no pipes were broken, no wires needed repair, and there was nothing to be delivered. But I could not live with an iota of doubt, not a chance. I had to know. So I walked in, plainly, calmly, and witnessed my evidence.

The man was putting on his pants, in no tremendous hurry, which spited me even more. He was in many ways what I had pictured, older, grey hairs gnawing at his scalp. He didn’t look at me. Anne did. She looked directly into my eyes, neither smiling nor laughing nor crying. She just looked. There was no indication of regret. She just looked.

I turned without saying a word and walked out the front door. I sat down on the bottom step, feeling the illness that had sent me home originally. I saw the neighbor lady, a middle-aged Polish woman with steel-grey hair, bringing home her groceries. Buses passed by; a stray dog stopped in front of me and sniffed before running along. It was a miraculously beautiful day; the heavens were clear and blue, with thin clouds drifting high, high above. Only the smell of tobacco in the air mixing with automobile fumes and the distant hum of the interstate reminded me that all was not glory and wonder.

I sat there for hours. I suspect my cuckolder left via the back door. I don’t know. I didn’t care. At one point my paralysis began to worry me. But I literally could not do anything about it. Finally I felt so ill I had to go in. She sat in the chair over which the jacket had been draped. She put out her cigarette.

“Is it so bad, really?”

I wanted desperately to lie down. I could feel myself swaying. I had no intention of discussing anything with her. I stood at the door to the bedroom and stopped. I realized I was not going to sleep in that bed.

“Is it really so bad?”

I looked at her and stumbled toward the guest bedroom, closing the door behind me. The bed was cluttered with junk, clothes, yarn, needles, wrapping paper. I pushed it all to the floor and literally fell on the bed face first. There was a knock. I said nothing. Another knock. “Jimmy?” I said nothing. The knob turned.

“Jimmy. I’m . . . I know you don’t want to hear any contrite remarks. And I know there’s nothing I can really say. You know I love you, don’t you? Jimmy, he was nothing to me. He is nothing to me.”

I did not stir.

“Damn it, Jimmy. Say something, you Goddamn pussy!”