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‘You brought it up. Is she young?’ The floorboard squeaked again in my husband’s retreat. I did not need another answer. ‘How often do you see her?’ He cleared his throat. ‘Just once, like I told you. She doesn’t mean anything to me. It was an accident.’ I laughed. It was sharp and throaty. It wasn’t my laugh. I could feel my husband wince. I tried to clasp a string of pearls around my throat. My hands wouldn’t cooperate. ‘Why did you tell me? Why now?’ I banged my open palm down on the vanity top. I decided against the pearls. ‘What do you want me to say? That I want to leave you? I don’t. I couldn’t keep it from you. I’ve never kept anything from you for twenty years.’ It was my turn to remain silent. I heard his footsteps retreat in the direction of the master bathroom. They disappeared when he reached the carpet. I heard the door click shut. When I finally turned around, I encountered our empty bedroom. His suit jacket was draped across the bed. When I looked at the blue silk. He could, simply by asking for it, conjure up a streetof shops with goods of every description the highestquality, and he could take whatever he wished from anyof them without paying. There were theaters to visit,and restaurants to try, and always willing femalecompanionship, willing to spend his days in leisure andhis nights in lustful explorations, and every morninghis companion would vanish without recriminations on herpart or any obligations on his. It was, he realized, hislife as he had wished it to be without obligation orconcern for anyone but himself. Of course, after a time, it became a bit dull. But Bealswas at his hand to supply work when he wanted it, andMr. Duchose was able to work as he had when he wantedto, and he did not let himself be too worried aboutwhether or not that work had any real purpose. Still, it was not too long before Mr. Duchose became abit restless. He also felt a familiar longing come overhim, one which had surfaced regularly throughout hislife, and.
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