Page 56 of Woman on the Verge

“I didn’t last long,” he says, voice muffled by the pillow.

“I still finished.” I did, easily and without question.

He lifts his head, kisses my thigh.

“I know,” he says. “I can feel it when you do.”

I asked Kyle once if he could feel when I orgasmed because it seemed impossible that he couldn’t. It would be like sleeping through an earthquake. He said no, though. It offended me in a way I couldn’t articulate then. I can now, though. I was hurt that he couldn’t feel something so overpowering to me, that we were in such separate experiences. I suppose that could summarize much of our marriage lately.

“I wanted you to come twice,” he says.

I pat him on the head, playfully. “Aw, young lad, you will have another chance.”

He does, in fact, have another chance. Not more than an hour later, we have sex again, this time slower. At one point during it, I think of Sting, the rock star, waxing poetic about tantric sex. I used to think sex as “spiritual act” was woo-woo bullshit, but now I’m reconsidering.

When we are done, he falls asleep, and I watch him, his lips barely parted, his eyelids twitching in the midst of a dream. An hour later, the sun sets, and I’m ravenous, as if I haven’t eaten in days. I rest my head on his bare chest, hoping he’ll stir. He does.

“Hey,” he says, groggy.

“Hey.”

“You’re hungry, aren’t you?”

“It’s like you can read my mind,” I say.

He stares right into my eyes and says, “Maybe I can.”

Of course, if he could, he would not be as enamored with me as he is—an adulteress with two small children.

“Or maybe you just heard my stomach growling.”

He laughs, sits up against the headboard.

“Wanna order in?” he asks. “You can try my favorite Chinese place. If you don’t like it, we’ll have to end things.”

“Wow, you have intense feelings about Chinese food.”

“It’s objectively the best in the city, so anyone who doesn’t agree it’s good cannot be trusted.”

“You shouldn’t have told me that. Now I could just lie to you and say I love it so you think I’m trustworthy.”

Which I’m not, clearly.

“I don’t think you’re that conniving.”

He has no idea. The longer the lying goes on, the more it’s getting to me. I’ve let him care for me more than he should. He’s getting attached to me—or to Katrina. My self-serving deceit could hurt this kind man if I’m not careful.

He reaches for his phone on the nightstand, and while he’s busy ordering, I get out of bed and go to my purse. I check my own phone. No messages. I keep feeling paranoid that there will be some emergency back home and I’ll be too busy having sex with my lover to properly respond. How could I live with myself then? I’m not even sure how I’m living with myself now.

I text Kyle:

Hi. Give the girls a goodnight kiss for me.

He responds right away, probably because he’s doing what I do and scrolling on his phone in search of dopamine hits that make parenting a little easier.

Ok.

“Done,” Elijah says, referring to the Chinese-food order.

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