Even though I start salivating at the aroma of fresh warm dough with rosemary and garlic wafting toward me when the basket is delivered, I find myself holding back, before I remember that it is Leah who shies away from the gluten to maintain some story about her intolerance, not me. And so I dig in hungrily as Chris watches with a wry smile on his face.

We walk home from the restaurant; it’s only a few minutes up the road. I stumble up the steps, keen to get out of the cold and into the warmth of the house. But once inside, Chris grabs me, pushing me back against the wall, lips mashing mine, tongue probing between my teeth like a fat slug. Suddenly he pulls back, eyes searching mine, breath against my face. I try to control the reflex to pull away from him and the garlic winey smell underpinned with a sense of something like food on the turn. He pushes himself off the wall and grins. “Just gotta do a few work bits. Why don’t you go and slip into something a little less comfortable, hmmm?” His hand is groping down my top and snaking into my bra. He pinches my nipple. “Hmmm.” That waft again of rancidity as he exhales. “You like that don’t you?”

I have never cleaned my teeth so quickly, throwing off my dress and struggling into a pair of thick flannel pajamas in an effort to get into bed before he comes in. Turning off the lamp, I slip Leah’s phone from my bag.

My husband is in the living room texting lewd messages to my twin while he thinks I’m sitting in our bed waiting for him.

Look how hard I am for you, his message says, and he includes a picture of his erect penis. Classy.

I’ll be thinking of you, it goes on.

I used to think this man was a catch. Jesus. All those months when we were first dating when I thought he was so sophisticated and suave, when I would ache for his touch. I can’t believe how naïve I was.

Five minutes later, light from the hallway fills the darkness of the bedroom. I am curled into a tight fetal shape on the far side of the bed, a soft snore breaking forth every few breaths. “You asleep, Meggie?” he asks and I feel his weight shift the bed and try not to shiver at the blast of cool air he lets in as he slips under the covers. He shuffles toward me and presses his hard-on into the small of my back. I snore again and try not to stiffen. “Oh, come on, Meggie.” He presses into me a little more, grinding his hips a few times. “Oh, fuck you then!” He throws off the covers and stomps to the en suite. He doesn’t bother to close the door, so I drift off to sleep to the harmony of my husband masturbating into the toilet.