As I finished the page I was working on, I felt his eyes on me. I considered asking if he should be studying and not staring at me or if there was something in my hair, or closing my book and moving away. Something would change, I knew, if I turned to face him. Mother’s words made the decision for me. I chose pleasure.

The kiss was simple, the barest touch of our lips before I pulled away. We returned to our books. I struggled to concentrate, though, too focused on the way his leg moved against mine, his furiously tapping foot.

The next time, a few days later, lasted longer. Each time, a bit longer than that, our hands slowly exploring each other’s bodies, both of us hoping no customers would walk in or that Mother would decide to make a rare appearance. We would have heard someone approaching, I was sure of it, but there were also times when the rest of the world seemed to fade away entirely except for his arms.

Even then—and I find it difficult to convince myself of this, so I wonder if it is possible to convince you—I did not like him much more than any other person I might have dated. You know I married him, that things worked out. But in those days, I hardly felt anything other than adrift. His arms locked me in place, slowed my descent. I chased those feelings and kissed him deeper, felt more of his body each time.

One day, after I had locked the front door and my parents had left to meet their friends, and only Torou and I remained, we went even further. We lay on the bench, him on top of me, the bench hard against my back, his body warm and welcoming.

His hand ventured beneath my shirt, working its way up to my breasts, which was not new. But on this day, I wanted more. I let him touch me as he pleased, his cold hand in stark contrast to his warm lips and breath. I slowly raised myself upright, pushing him until we were both sitting. I moved so I could face him, so I could straddle him with my legs and wrap my knees around his waist.

I rubbed my body against his, and as I did, my mind circled back to you and your boy. How once, you had done something just like this, and how you never shared those details with me, and now I could see why. The reactions of my body, new and foreign and intoxicating. I wanted only him to witness it. His hand began to lift my skirt.