As for me, I will find something to read while I listen to the busy silence of the two of them behind the closed door in the room down the hall from me. I know they’ll have sex. Diann asked me last night if it could hurt him. And I said no. I saw his chest slick with sweat, his face full of the sweet pain of pleasure. No, I said, it wouldn’t hurt him—a little increased intracranial pressure with orgasm, big deal. Take it slow, I said. Make sure everything’s all right with what you’re doing before you … go on.

I am his nurse. I am his nurse. My job is to monitor signs and symptoms, supervise medications, to educate and support. My job is also to help him enjoy what is left for him, no matter who it’s with, no matter what form it takes, so long as it’s legal. Then, thinking of DeWitt, I amend this to: so long as it doesn’t hurt anyone else.

I feel a tear slip down my cheek. Quickly—and with great, misplaced anger—I wipe it away.

• • •

I am lying in bed reading Rosie’s All-Butter, Fresh Cream, Sugar-Packed Baking Book, the recipe for chocolate orgasms. Close as I’m going to get.

I am also trying very hard to hear everything that’s going on down the hall from me—without shame, it’s my house. Not that I’ve had to try so hard. You can see why Diann was a cheerleader. At one point, she actually roused Frank from sleep—he looked around blankly before he put his head back down on his paws, sighing. “Want up?” I asked him, patting the bed beside me. He wagged his tail, refused.

Now there is the low sound of Chip and Diann talking. Maybe they’re reviewing the good time they just had, doing the usual post-coital filling in of scorecards. The postcoital experience for me is always similar to how you feel after a massive cheat on your diet: You shove food in your mouth, barely chewing; then, afterward, you don’t know where to look. Shame lies curled in your belly; you want to grab hold of your need and shake it.

I hear Chip laugh softly, then Diann. Oh, how did this happen? How is it that I am lying in my bed in the place that is supposed to be my refuge, listening to a man I so much care for make love to another woman? On my sheets! That I spent a long time selecting—and from Bloomingdale’s, not even Bed and Bath!