Epoch

Maybe it was an accident…that’s probably it…even at his age, men are like teenage boys when it comes to, you know. My g-d, Ash, I don’t know what I’ll do. My husband is having an affair. I know it, Ash, I know. I found a shirt this morning. Behind a chair in our bedroom. There was evidence Ash, but not all of it physical properties. At his age? At my age. Imagine! Hormones always get the blame, but that’s not it, is it? I know because I’m still clipping and snapping on that damned belt every month and, and wearing skirts for seven days. It’s still a bloody mess and I know I’m not, it’s not … over … I don’t . . . I’ve read Spinoza, Kant, Bergson. I know. . . It’s just like that the first time is so hard, you know? Drinks, dinner, your hand on my knee, my thigh. I couldn’t hardly go through with it. It happened in a flash then …. I saw his face then. I saw it . . . your hand squeezing his thigh. An odd sensation of panic then relief. And when I picked up his shirt this morning, Ash, I knew. I knew that he must have held your hand, looked into your dark brown eyes as I had. Oh, Ash, I’m afraid, I’ve known, for a long time, I’ve known.