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feathers, a
set of fur-lined handcuffs?
    As the small suitcase was unzipped and
propped open in front of the camera lens, Marcy and Jess watched the close-up
of a pair of moving hands.
    Big, hairy hands.
    The kind of hands that would have to belong
to a big, hairy man.
    Marcy gasped.
    “What the heck? You filmed us?” Jess’s
voice was filled with awe.
    He’d been leaning over her shoulder,
squinting and frowning. Now he reached over to press the stop button.
    He turned on her and yelled, “That’s
unbelievable. You have no right!”
    Marcy wiggled out of the chair. Her heart
rate was in the danger zone, her voice quivering when she yelled back at him.
    “I have every right! I’m your wife!
Something’s wrong, very wrong. I had to find out what it was. I need to
know what’s happening to us.”
    She stopped, gasped for breath, then
blurted, “Look me in the eye and tell me there’s nothing going on.”
    He looked her in the eye. “Oh, Marce. You
don’t even know me, do you?”
    He was wearing nothing but a fluffy white
bath towel wrapped around his narrow waist. His hairless chest did not ripple
with muscle, his flat belly did not display a six-pack of rock-solid abs. He
squinted at her, trying to see her expression through the haze of his myopia.
The man was right. She didn’t know him, would never know him.
    They were standing so close she could smell
him. The garlicky odor filled her head and made her dizzy. And, to make things worse,
he suddenly started snickering.
    The chicken she’d been roasting with
sun-dried tomatoes, artichokes, onions, and olive oil, was filling the room
with a competing, distinctly Venetian aroma. Still chuckling, Jess sniffed at
the air for a moment. His smile widened.
    “You’re cooking my favorite—” he
began.
    But Marcy jumped in and trounced him.
    “Shut the fuck up! Don’t you dare change
the subject. What the—”
    Before she could finish, he grabbed her
shoulders and moved her aside so he could plop down into the chair in front of
the computer.
    “Make sure the chicken doesn’t burn. I’m fast-forwarding
so you can see what I’ve been up to. Maybe you’ll calm down once you see
exactly what I’ve been doing after work.”
    While he fiddled with the keys, Marcy stood
her ground, watching the blur of high-speed images rush by on the screen. Fuck
the chicken, she wasn’t going to miss one second of video! Even if she had to
watch her husband having sex with a big, hairy man, she was going to keep her
eyes glued to the little movie she’d made of his secret life.
    Jess pressed pause and sat back in the
chair.
    He looked up at her and said, “Marcy, meet
Ian.”
    She leaned over his shoulder. The man on
the screen was grizzled, hunched, older than Jess. A big, hairy guy. Not
attractive in any way. He appeared to be cradling something in his hand. Jess
zoomed in to enlarge the image.
    Ian was holding a chess piece. A white
queen. The chess piece was smooth, cool, impassive—like the pale, blonde
woman in Marcy’s dream.
    Jess laughed softly. “Ian and I play chess
three times a week. At my office. When we’re supposedly working late. Instead,
we get together and play chess. Sometimes for money, sometimes naked. Which
means just for fun.”
    He looked up at her, smiling sheepishly. “Ian’s
wife doesn’t like it when he’s not selling shoes, which is what he does for a living,
or home fixing the plumbing, or mowing the grass. I figured you wouldn’t like
me playing chess all the time either. But the thing is, Ian and I . . .”
    He paused, then grinned.
    “We’re in love.”
    Her heart stopped. She felt the absence of
a steady pulse, the pulse of her life. The room darkened around her.
    In that black hole moment, Jess added, “With
the game.”
    Sputtering with relief and shock, Marcy
didn’t know what to say. Chess? He’d been playing chess ? And lying to
her about it? What a total nerd!
    “I didn’t think you’d understand why I want
to hang