George went to the kitchen and poured a glass of milk, then carried it into the bedroom. Verena was already in bed, wearing a nightdress, with a pile of magazines beside her, reading and watching TV at the same time. George drank the milk, then went into the bathroom and brushed his teeth.

They seemed to be getting on a little better. They rarely made love, these days, but Verena was more even-tempered. In fact she had not erupted for a month or so. She was working hard, often late into the evenings: perhaps she was happier when her job was more demanding.

George took off his shirt and lifted the lid of the laundry hamper. He was about to drop his shirt in when his eye was caught by Verena’s underwear. He saw a lacy black brassiere and matching panties. The set looked new, and he did not recall seeing it on her. If she was buying sexy underwear, why was she not letting him view it? She sure as hell was not shy about such things.

Looking more closely, he saw something even more strange: a blond hair.

He was possessed by a terrible fear. His stomach cramped. He picked the garments out of the hamper.

Carrying them into the bedroom, he said: “Tell me I’m crazy.”

“You’re crazy,” she said; then she saw what he had in his hand. “Are you going to do my laundry?” she quipped, but he could tell she was nervous.

“Nice underwear,” he said.

“Lucky you.”

“Except that I haven’t seen it on you.”

“Unlucky you.”

“But someone has.”

“Sure. Dr. Bernstein.”

“Dr. Bernstein is bald. There’s a blond hair in your underpants.”

Her cappuccino skin went paler, but she remained defiant. “Well, Sherlock Holmes, what do you deduce from that?”

“That you had sex with a man with long blond hair.”

“Why does it have to be a man?”

“Because you like men.”

“I might like girls too. It’s the fashion. Everyone is bisexual now.”

George felt profoundly sad. “I note you’re not denying that you’re having an affair.”

“Well, George, ya got me.”

He shook his head incredulously. “Are you making light of this?”

“I guess I am.”

“So you admit it. Who are you fucking?”

“I’m not going to tell you, so don’t ask again.”

George was having more and more difficulty suppressing his anger. “You act as if you’ve done nothing wrong!”

“I’m not going to pretend. Yes, I’m seeing someone I like. I’m sorry to hurt your feelings.”

George was bewildered. “How did this happen so quickly?”

“It happened slowly. We’ve been married more than five years. The thrill is gone, like the song says.”

“What did I do wrong?”

“You married me.”

“When did you become so angry?”

“Am I angry? I thought I was just bored.”

“What do you want to do?”

“I’m not giving him up for the sake of a marriage that hardly exists any longer.”

“You know I can’t accept that.”

“So, leave. You’re not a prisoner.”