I believe that my wife is having an affair. No, she hasn’t bought thick, new perfume or leopard print lingerie, hasn’t revamped her hair…there’s just an energy about her that I can’t place. She’s restless at night and leaves our bed to sit in the atrium, where I find her staring at the pale moon beyond the glass. Sometimes she even falls asleep on the couch out there. I rarely wake her then; instead, I pour myself a scotch and sit across from her on the white wicker chair, waiting, studying, wondering what dreams could occupy that lovely head. I am fairly sure she is not dreaming about me, not in a starring role anyway. We’ve been married too long for that. Her face is so still that she could be dreaming of nothing at all…but why leave the bedroom, leave me, to dream about nothing? No, she dreams, Emily definitely dreams. Suddenly her face contracts and she sighs. It is a sexual and exquisite sound, so full of longing that I can almost feel another man there with her in the shadows. When she wakes up afterward, sees me sitting across the way, she stares at me a tiny second as if trying to remember my name. “Ross,” she recollects finally. “What are you doing here?”

Good question, darling.