
It was a nothing thing. A minor sin, an indiscretion that, in the moment, seemed weightless, no more damning than a lie about traffic when arriving late for dinner. I told myself that. I told myself, too, that I was still the same man she married, the same man who laid beside her night after night, who knew the smell of her hair in every permutation—shampooed and damp, sun-warmed, slick with the oil of sleep. And yet, I did this thing.









