At the hospital the night before, he found himself ruminating on the differences between the two women. Of late, Mary Hairl’s eyes had begun to look sunken, hollow, smudged dark, and Jake felt as guilty as if he’d struck her. He’d been patient and tender, dogged in his attentions, but his brain had disconnected, returning to Violet in spite of his best intentions. While he’d dabbed Mary Hairl’s face with a damp cloth, he’d be thinking about Violet, the last time they been to bed, the ferocity with which she bit and sucked at him, clinging like a woman drowning among the bedsheets. She could tease, withhold, letting her red hair sweep over his thighs while he struggled for control, thrusting himself toward her. Violet would pull away, smiling, her eyes glittering. She’d lick the length of him, and he knew he’d never learn to stifle his groan when she finally took him in her mouth.

He looked down. Mary Hairl had asked for ice water, which Jake went to fetch for her, replenishing her glass. She was thirsty, as trusting as a child, sucking at the clear bent glass straw that he held to her lips. She murmured a thank you and lay back against the pillows. He knew he couldn’t go on with Violet. Every other day he’d decide he had to break it off, but each time the opportunity presented itself, he’d think Once more… just once more, and then he’d hope to find the strength necessary to sever the relationship.

There was a weight in his chest, a heaviness reminding him of all he’d betrayed. Sometimes the anxiety was so intense he felt sick. He was grateful to Violet. He’d always be grateful for what he’d learned. She’d brought him to life after years of ministering to Mary Hairl’s pain. If Mary Hairl would go-if she’d only get on with it-he knew the suffocating sense of desperation would pass. At the same time, though he could barely admit it to himself, he harbored the fantasy that with his wife gone, Violet might become a permanent part of his life, filling the void that Mary Hairl had left.