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silent.
    “Jesus Christ,” said Peter softly.
    “It wasn’t an affair.”
    Peter nodded. He knew what kind of person Hans was. Of course it hadn’t been an affair. Of course there was no love involved. “Just sex,” said Peter.
    Cathy, wisely, said nothing.
    “Christ,” said Peter again. He still had the magazine reader in his hand. He looked at it, thinking he should throw it across the room, smash it against a wall. After a moment, he simply dropped it on the couch next to him. It bounced silently against the cushion. “When was the last time?” he said.
    “Three months ago,” she said, her voice small. “I’ve been trying to work up the courage to tell you. I — I didn’t think I could. I tried twice before, but I just couldn’t do it.”
    Peter said nothing. There was no appropriate reaction, no way to deal with it. Nothing. An abyss.
    “I — I thought about killing myself,” Cathy said after a very long pause, her voice attenuated like a predawn wind. “Not poison or slitting my wrists, though — nothing that would look like suicide.” She met his eyes briefly. “A car accident. I was going to ram into a wall. That way, you’d still love me. You’d never know what I’d done, and … and you’d remember me with love. I tried. I was all ready to do that, but, when it finally came down to it, I swerved the car.” Tears were running down her cheeks. “I’m a coward,” she said at last.
    Silence. Peter tried to make sense of it all. There was no point in asking if she was going to go with Hans. Hans didn’t want a relationship, not a real relationship, not with Cathy or any woman. Hans. Fucking Hans.
    “How could you get involved with Hans? Hans of all people?” asked Peter. “You know what he is.”
    She looked at the ceiling. “I know,” she said softly. “I know.”
    “I’ve always tried to be a good husband,” said Peter. “You know that. I’ve been supportive in every way possible. We talk about everything. There’s no communication problem, no way you can say I don’t listen to you.”
    Her voice took on an edge for the first time. “Did you know I’ve been crying myself to sleep for months?”
    They had a pair of bedside fans that they used as white-noise generators, drowning out the sounds of traffic from outside, as well as each other’s occasional snoring. “There’s no way I could have known that,” he said. He’d occasionally noticed her shuddering next to him as he fell to sleep. Half-conscious, he’d idly thought she’d been masturbating; he kept that thought to himself.
    “I’ve got to think about this,” he said slowly. “I’m not sure what I want to do.”
    She nodded.
    Peter threw his head back, let out a long, ragged sigh. “Christ, I have to rewrite the entire last six months in my mind. That vacation we took in New Orleans. That was after you and Hans — And that time we borrowed Sarkar’s cottage for the weekend. That was after, too. It’s all different now. All of it. Every mental picture from that time, every happy moment — fake, tainted.”
    “I’m sorry,” said Cathy, very softly.
    “Sorry?” Peter’s voice was ice. “You might have been sorry if it had happened just once. But three times? Three fucking times?”
    Her lips were trembling. “I
am
sorry.”
    Peter sighed again. “I’m going to call Sarkar and see if he’s free for dinner.”
    Cathy was silent.
    “I don’t want you along. I want to talk to him alone. I’ve got to sort things out.”
    She nodded.

CHAPTER 5
    Peter had known Sarkar Muhammed since they’d both been teenagers. They’d lived on the same street, although Sarkar had gone to a private school. They had perhaps seemed unlikely prospects for friendship. Sarkar was heavily involved in athletics. Peter was on his school’s yearbook and newspaper staffs. Sarkar was devoutly Muslim. Peter wasn’t devoutly anything. But they’d hit it off shortly after Sarkar’s family moved into the neighborhood.