A week later and it’s a stormy day. We are in the Moss House with the fire blazing and the wind outside blowing through the trees and rattling the panes, and I find myself wondering if I love her. I can only compare her to Mariana and how she made me feel. Should I accept that this will be a different sort of love? With Mariana we were equals, though of course I was the husband. Equals in intellect, interests, desires, loves. We could talk about anything, freely.

With Miss Walker I feel superior. It is not her fault, but the relationship is different, like that of a teacher and her pupil, not just about intimate relations but in all things. She asks my advice as if she has no clue herself. It is not a discussion; she just accepts what I say. I could tell her all sorts of mistruths and she would believe me.

Can I think myself into being in love with her? She is not as pretty as Mariana, but she is pretty enough. Prettier than me. Is she my only option now?

It will serve Mariana right once she hears that I have moved on and she has no chance any longer. I may be happier with Miss Walker than previous women. Being the husband in this relationship may be more rewarding, to see her blossom and grow in confidence. This way we will argue less, and I can make all the decisions. Is that really what I want? I may have to find my intellectual equal elsewhere or I may grow bored by her quickly.

A few weeks more and the dark nights have crept in. She now seems to think I will only like her until the novelty wears off. I convince her I have never felt like this about anyone else before. I can tell she does not quite believe me, and I wish I’d never tried to lie. The lamp goes out and we continue to kiss, and I feel for her breasts and then down to her queer. She does not resist, and I whisper to her that it would break my heart if she left me. It is a mistake. She sits up, pushing me away. She recounts to me that she is still undecided and she has not committed to me yet. I must give her time, she insists, and she flies from the Moss House and out into the dark as if I had struck her.

I do not go after her.

Miss Walker