Werner might be doing something private (all alone) (by himself) he doesn’t want me to walk in on.

A dying animal somehow got into our bedroom?

Or it’s just the television.

Despite my brain’s attempt to save me from the truth, my feet carry me inexorably toward the bedroom door, past a woman’s blouse and Werner’s shirt, both discarded on the floor. By now, my denial is morphing into a slow-growing rage. I turn the knob. Push the door open.

I see Werner’s pale butt first. I recognize it, somehow, even though I’ve never seen it from this angle. I know what it’s doing, even though I’ve never seen it clenching and thrusting like that. We’re not the type of couple that uses mirrors or makes videos of ourselves. We have plain vanilla missionary sex under the covers, because that’s how we like it.

That’s how Werner said he likes it.

Right now, however, he is standing at the side of the bed, pounding into someone who is on all fours on his—our—bed.

“What the hell?”

That’s my voice. Which is remarkable for two reasons. One: I didn’t mean to speak. And two: I never swear.

Werner yanks himself free of the woman underneath him so fast I’m surprised he doesn’t break something, er, valuable. Which offers me a totally different unwanted backside view—ugh.

It takes the owner of this view a little longer than Werner to realize what’s going on, but when she does, she gasps and grasps for anything she can find to cover herself. Even so, as she clutches Werner’s quilt to her body, tugging it off the bed, I catch the front view: lacy red teddy and breasts pushed up to her chin.

Is that thing crotchless? my mind demands to know, despite the urgency and absurdity of the situation.

I’ve never seen her before, which is very slim relief.

“Get out,” I snarl at her, and, to her credit, she gets, grabbing her clothes as she rushes out. I can hear her beginning to cry as she removes herself.

I’m alone with Werner now. He’s desperately trying to get himself back into his tighty-whities. I guess it’s a survival instinct, covering up your parts when you’ve been caught. He’s red and breathless and saying my name, begging me.

“Rachel, please, it’s not what it looks like.”

“I don’t think that’s even possible.” A weird calm settles over me. If someone turns out not to be the man you thought he was, can you fall instantly out of love with him?

If someone disappoints you completely, does he lose his power to break your heart?

Or am I just in shock?