KATE

KATE

I WAS STUNNED. I MAY HAVE LAUGHED. THEN I GATHERED MYSELF, CALMLY WALKED from our bedroom to our bathroom, where I closed and locked the door. I took a shower and scrubbed with lots of soap until I was clean.

Tim stood in the hallway, calling, “Kate, are you all right? Kate?” Over and over he said my name.

Little late for that, don’t you think?

I wrapped myself in a towel and opened the door.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Once you’ve been humiliated in your own bedroom, my advice is to stiff-arm the apology. The feeble apology.

“Come on, are you sure?”

What, did he expect me to weep, to fall apart?

I thought about how much to tell him. Do I tell the truth? How, during that sweet-seeming (but, in retrospect, protracted) exercise in the missionary position, my mind had wandered, too, although my thoughts were more chore-related, as in Did I put away the dishes? Did I double-lock the door?

I brushed my teeth as he tried to explain himself. He rambled on, something about how it had been mostly me in his thoughts. He felt terrible, and I was almost convinced, but then he complained that the complete darkness of the room hadn’t helped. He’d felt bad that it was taking so long. Did he really believe this would make me feel better?

“Look,” I said, “you’re not the only person who thinks of other people.” I spat into the sink. “The truth is—”

“What? Tell me.”

I rinsed my mouth out. “I was thinking of someone else, too.”

“Really?” Tim looked part relieved, part worried.

“But there’s a big difference . . .”

“Yeah, you didn’t moan out his name.” He must have thought that was funny, because he kind of laughed.

“That, too,” I said. “But the big difference is that while I can fuck Jeff Slade whenever I want, Anna Brody would never have you.” Then I walked past him and climbed into my side of the bed.

Faintly, from the hallway, he said, “Ouch.”

TIM

TIM

IT HAD BEEN TWO DAYS SINCE THE GREAT FAUX PAS, FORTY-EIGHT HOURS SINCE the blurting out of another woman’s name as I came. This should have prompted some swift action on my part. But for whatever reason, I was stumped. Flowers, chocolates, even jewelry wouldn’t cut it. That much I knew. But hadn’t Kate committed a thought crime of her own? Jeff Slade, indeed! And while I’d been wrong for saying that other name, Kate had been wrong for thinking about a realizable person. My crime had been that I didn’t protect her. Her crime? She intentionally and understandably hurt me. I was mulling all this over when Anna called.

“How would you and the boys like to—”

“Yes,” I said, interrupting her.