Not that. Not that. No, not that either. So? What’s it matter? He doesn’t love her anyway. Maybe. Well, he could love her. That’s it. He must love her. He loves her so much it doesn’t matter. He loves her so much it doesn’t matter if they don’t have sex anymore. God. No sex. That’s love. But, wait, he loves sex. He LOVES sex. He’s great at sex. He loves her THAT much? No. Can’t be. He’s not someone who can just give up sex. Is he? He’s young! The rest of his life without sex? No. So, that’s why he has her. Now it makes sense. But why keep her when he has her? He MUST really love her. What does he tell her? DOES he tell her? Does she know? Did she give him permission? God knows. If he loves her and fucks her, what the hell does he want with me?

“So, just so we’re clear, you, you don’t, like, want to take my husband.” Her hands fumbled over themselves on top of the kitchen table.

“No! No, I’m not here to take anyone’s anything.” Her hands were folded tightly in her lap, the way she’d learned in school.

“OK. I just had to ask. You know.”

“Sure, sure. I understand.”

Then the husband puffed his chest, “Now that that’s settled, how ‘bout we start with a shower?”

“Yeah, a shower.” She sat up a bit straighter, ran a hand over her husband’s back.

“OK.”

They filed down the hall and undressed, an awkward giggle here and there.

His eyes devoured her body, the body he’d been flirting with for weeks at work.

They filled the walk-in shower, let the water splash over them, began to touch and kiss. Then, when they were no longer strangers, only bodies moving through steam toward each other, they stepped out smiling, wrapped themselves in towels.

“You want a nightgown?” the wife asked.

“I thought we were…”

“Yeah, we are.”

She stopped, water dripping from head to toe, and looked from wife to husband.

“She’s just more comfortable in a nightgown…” he explained.