Imani pulled back her door. Some women that she counseled swore they wouldn’t want to know if their husband was having an affair. They professed that they’d prefer to live in willful ignorance rather than shake up their comfortable existences and upend their children’s lives. Imani always doubted that they meant it, though. Their very presence in a therapist’s office meant that such ignorance wasn’t bliss. Not knowing was killing them as much as knowing. Deep down, nobody could stand being kept in the dark.

Philip’s head was tilted back against the bedframe. His eyes were wide. His mouth open. His chest exposed in all its blinding whiteness. A duvet, one or two shades lighter than Philip’s skin, moved up and down above his waist, a back arching and flattening, or a head lowering and raising.

The moan sounded again. Philip ignored it, turning his head toward the door. “Imani?” The covers abruptly stopped moving. “You’re home early.”

His tone wasn’t alarmed enough for a man caught in bed with another woman. Imani tentatively approached, unsure of what might pop from beneath the covers. As she did, the moans continued. They emanated not from beneath the duvet, she realized, but from the television atop the credenza.

Before she could see what was on the screen, Philip rolled toward the nightstand. She got a flash of bare bottom. At the same time, the television went dark.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt anything,” she said.

Philip’s face reddened. His blush was one of the features she’d always found attractive on her husband. There was something innocent about the ability to be so blatantly embarrassed. “Sorry,” he said. “I was home and had nothing to do.”

Blood rose to Imani’s cheeks. “It’s fine. I get it.”

“Didn’t expect you to walk in.”

Her husband’s persistent shame made her wonder if he’d been watching something particularly offensive. Bondage, perhaps. Or, worse, a Tonya look-alike going at it with an older Irishman. “Maybe I’m glad I did,” she said, trying to keep her tone flirty. “What were you watching?”

Philip eyed her as if she was hiding something behind her back.

“What?” She kept her pitch high and playful, knowing that her face was likely advertising her concern. “I’m not allowed to see?”

“Sure. I’ll show you.”

Philip clicked the television back on. The video continued from where it had left off with a dark-haired, bronze woman, perhaps Afro-Latina, obviously faking enthusiasm for a man with tanned arms and a belly even paler than her husband’s own. The woman didn’t exactly look like her. However, she definitely didn’t resemble Tonya.