Washington, DC 2018

The night air grew cool and a slight breeze was a sigh of relief. It was over. It. Your infidelity. It was five years into our marriage and it was so crushing a blow that I couldn't' breathe most of the time. The baby was so little and so new. My body was still healing. I had three-year-old Maddy and Alexander, a newborn. The three of us were an organism, one living being. Why did you do it? I think maybe you felt my darkness, the postpartum mental illness, was one more time you'd have to save my life. But, how many times do I have to say it? I never asked you to save my life.

No dark corners, the night of Maddy's third birthday, I couldn't hide from you. I couldn't look into your eyes because I couldn't lie to you. You knew how I felt and so there I sat on that august night. Willing you to leave, not expecting you to come in the first place. Or worse if you did come to Maddy's second birthday party—and why shouldn't you? You are her father...this was your home. She had begged me. She had an instinct about these matters. Even at three years old. She knew if she begged me to invite you (I would have any way) then maybe you would come.

It wasn't the first time I'd seen you but it was the first time since I got my body back. I was myself again. Annie.

I caught your glance twice during the party. Once when I lit the candles. By that time Maddy was on your lap. Her chubby fingers holding both your hands while she closed her eyes to blow out the candles. When I looked up to start singing Happy Birthday, your eyes found mine.

My own mother. Her new mantra. Her adaptation to the new you, the cheater.. "I love Edward but I do not like him" She loved you but she didn't like you? "How can that be mom? How can you love Edward but not like him?" I know though, it's her posturing, ready to love or hate him, whatever is necessary to align with me.

"You're fragile. You're a flower, Annie." This half meditation on her youngest child: me. Ever since I left your family that first time at seventeen. Ever since the night I almost drowned at your family's home on Slaters Beach. My body so bruised from the tide or those foggy hallucinatory events—that you witnessed—that I will not let you expose. Even 10 years later, to mom, I am a flower. A darkness fell over me, with my mom and dad as witnesses. I missed the Fall semester at Georgetown and that's what worried mom the most. I'd been so excited, ready for college and that fall I hid in darkness...until I didn't. Edward, that is my objection to your enduring commitment to "processing" "the trauma." In that way, I am strong and you are not. Healthy people get on with things. That is resilience-when there are events or unforeseen problems a strong person weathers them. I am weathering the postpartum mental illness and when it ends I will not spend years analyzing it. I will re-enter my life and choose happiness. That is the fundamental difference between us.

It was absurd. "So what if I'm a flower?" That's how families are. I never asked "what do you mean? I"m a flower?" Instead my anemic rebellion, "so what if I am?"

It was completely dark and it was time to put Maddy to bed. She was floppy and when I turned to her again and began to whisper "It's time for..." your hand was on my shoulder. I looked up and into your eyes. You were my friend again and a cool trickle entered my heart. My resolve, not my pain, my resolve was melting. This was our house, our home-despite all of it we'd created it together. The aesthetic. We were always so awed by our shared sense of taste. The glistening oak flooring. Wide, restored barn wood planks. Bleached. It reminded us of the chateaus in the French Country. Our honeymoon. That was the pinnacle of our love affair, our infatuation so contagious other guests at the inns wanted to take pictures of us. With us. Everyone friendly giving us food or wine. Telling us what beautiful newlyweds we were. Constantly intoxicated. Then to the English countryside, our kitchen island...how did we find it? And so much money—you didn't care. it was so beautiful, the deep worn butcher block top, the depression a concave smooth surface...years of bread making there it was not at the French flea markets where we found our carved four poster bed or our sofa-a foolish extravagance—the painful decision to remove the antique silk fabric, that faded pink and salmon stripe. So old and lovely. But worn. The arms, torn and horsehair stuffing revealed, the acorn colored spines darkened from dirt. Really, it was better after we overstuffed the cushions and covered them with —do you remember?— "lawn green" the decorator had said. "Chartreuse" you whispered in my ear. I nudged you with my elbow. You always had me on the edge of laughter, breaking down.

"No?" She asked. She asked you "No? Not the lawn green?" The fabric was plush, so soft. It was fine fabric and it would elevate our antique Louis the xvi couch. "I love this" she'd said. She was so fit and trim, thin with bony wrists - a pretty watch—pearl and platinum. It was delicate and functional — like her. Her cashmere crew necks—one day you said it to me "lawn green" - did you notice? Driving home, the Saab—smooth ride, smooth like you. She'd indoctrinated you.

But, it worked. She was right. Lucy. The designer. She said "oh my." She inspected the sofa. She admired her own work so much. "Isn't it just—" she had tears Her eyes were wet. Yes. The lawn green was perfect. Even I—even you—could see once it was finished that it was not Chartreuse. Not at all. Overstuffed and not at all petite and precious like other Louis xvi seating. The overstuffed, down cushions, the legs and wood frame—the patina of an oyster paint—18th century paint...sealed, protected. There it was, shipped from France, re-imagined by Lucy. Sitting there with the light from the floor to ceiling lead windows. Remember the real estate listing?

"Opportunity to make it your own."

Built in 1880, this spacious row home boasts 3 sun-drenched levels. Wood beams, exposed brick, original moldings, this home has "classic charm."

Always we were "making it our own." "Classic charm." An excuse - a get out of jail free pass. No matter what we did, those two adjectives. Classic. Charm. Anything goes. "Don't be silly," said Lucy. "Be intentional." Her one admonishment for our caprice with such important matters as interior design.

Still once we'd extracted all the aesthetic genius from Lucy, we parted ways. And, after our second trip to France — this time Paris and the museums, restaurants. The antique markets. Still narcotic fresh air and a burnt dusk light. Still having to be close enough to touch each other: the desire love between us magnetic and essential. Back to England for two days. The kitchen Island was a chance discovery -we weren't looking but we knew when we happened upon it. We always knew about furniture. It's two hundred year old 30 inch concave butcher block.The deep drawers and shelf that Maddy now hides in while we cook—no books, no toys, just sleepy Maddy tracing the grain of the oak, likely enjoying the smell of clean antique wood.

"Why don't I take her to bed? Come on Madd—"

"No." I stood, careful to keep Alexander from waking. I reached for Maddy's hand. "I'm sure you have to get home to—"

"Annie...don't. I want to be here." As if that was all that mattered.

Yet, it made me hungry to hear your words, a sudden re-awakening, reminding me of how strong my feelings for you were and under the right conditions, our love prevailed. "Oh." I whispered. I could feel myself flush.

"Don't cry Annie..."

I pushed your hand away. Don't Cry. Maddy shoved my arm away and hit my chest. "No!" She said, and it was an exaggerated baby pout but I could see she was so worn out, so tired that if I didn't let you put her to bed there would be a tantrum, screaming. Inconsolable tears, taking back the attention I'd portioned out for Alexander. Just like you: selfish.

Since Alexander she'd become impossible.

"All right I'll put the baby to bed. You can see yourself out."

You started to say something and I pushed past you.

I hoped Alexander would wake. That he would need me to rock him, hold him. I could have. There would be no suspicion. He was so young and little. Then I could have avoided any time alone with you, any more of you. You'd leave if Alexander was fussy and it took hours to sooth him.

'It was stupid" I thought. My comment. It gnawed its way into me. "Someone to get home to." Why would I Have said that? See how it works? See what you do to my thinking? We'd only been separated three months. Three months apart yet we were never officially separated. Your address stayed the same. You took some clothes and books, your laptop, the necessities. Still most of your things were here. Your wife and children were here. Were we ever separated?

But...You left. You left me. For a while, that first month, you still arranged to see Maddy—at least twice a week. Then, less often I imagine that was because your affair was heating up, fueled with the intoxicating infatuation-the same as us? That hurts me. That adds incalculable of pounds to the weight that presses on me. That has since Alexander— You abandoned your son too—let's not forget that inconceivability—This was the first time seen Alexander since you left. He was hardly a week old and now he's a three month old baby-a stranger you.

Alexander's raspy respiration calmed into the predictable rhythm of deep sleep. I rocked him in the chair your grandmother had given us. Before she passed away. "It's in the will Edward" she said her voice was broken from years of silence-that's not fair but I don't care. "The will...but take it now." Her lips turned to a smile. She still loved me—unlike your mother. She loved you so she loved. Still all of it part of a chess game: your family's withholding and attention. No, correction, roulette. You were always, always the outlier. That's what made you enigmatic. And Jack. Jack was perfect.

The rocker was smooth and calming. It was so comfortable even during my pregnancy. Even when Alexander was swimming inside of me, swishing around the hormones that were programmed to drop so suddenly after his birth, catapulting me. But the chair. I should have stayed right here on this chair. This sanctuary. Held Maddy and Alexander, stayed here and let the world orbit around me.

It was a funny, Dr Seuss chair. The wood of the rockers a "swoosh" modern 70s profile. "Carved according to his imagination" Lucy would whisper after educating us on the avant grade work of Wendell Castle. Zebra wood and a tan suede almost bucket seat.

Do you remember Lucy felt faint when she saw it. We had boxes of baby shower gifts and blankets, some bubble wrap...it was a junk collector. She'd unearthed it, an archaeologist. Her slender, elegant fingers running over the smooth wood.

"Oh, my" she whispered. "Oh my."

"What is it?" You walked closer, Lucy reflexively held her hand up, as if to stop you. As if you -nor I- were the right caretakers of this breath taking piece.

Your family was so rich that we had no conception of the value of such things. Now we could see as Lucy said, her glasses atop her salt and pepper bob, inspecting without touching as if we were in the MOMA and sensor alarms would peal. "Are you sure you want this in the baby's room?" She couldn't hear us...she talking to herself. "Blurred the line between furniture and art."

You were speaking to me with your eyes. This would become an inside joke and you would take it to the permitter of absurdity. "It does, doesn't it?" you'd had asked the man at Home Depot—not the clerk but the man next to you—in character "this drill, blurs the line between art and power tools... don't you think?" For me...this was for me. But the guy must have been an artist or a professor, "Everything is art. Everything is fiction."The same straight face as you.

I placed Alexander in his crib and kept my eyes on him. My breathing still in parallel rhythm to his. I could spend my entire life watching my children and especially as they slept. This was particularly true for Alex. He was only three months old. The pediatrician tells you—a high risk time for SIDS especially boys. This is but one of the fears I hold on to silently. Hope will dissipate, hope it does not transform into another, worse anxiety.

I listened for the door-but I knew. I knew that you were still in the flat. I didn't know what to do . What did I want to do? I wanted to see you. My anger and sadness retreated with a rush of anticipation. Joy.I missed you. I was torn apart and I feared it could never be the same as it was. I was torn apart and I missed you so much. Everyday for three months I missed you. It's not cray passion I missed-although my attraction for you never waned—it was our friendship.

I kept the door ajar and when I entered the softly lit hallway, the light evenly dispersed all the way down to the floor-to-ceiling iron framed window at the very end. The window that looks out on the garden. Photographs of Maddy taken there, the large ones black and white (despite the lush garden through the wavy glass behind her). Black and white reducing nature, reducing our baby to geometric blocks, patterns of contrast. The rugs, still clean somehow (mom called in professional antique rug cleaners after the suicide attempt. It was only the runner in the west hall out side of the bathroom and the edge of the Turkish rug in the bedroom that had suffered water damage when the EMTs carried me out—but she had every damn rug int he house cleaned.She had the whole house cleaned). Now, listening to you put Maddy to bed I stare at the 10 foot Iranian runner, red and navy...a beautiful compliment to the white walls, tall ceilings, and the incredible window. Stark on purpose because anything—even a table with a lamp—incandescent lighting —even that would detract so much from the feeling of this special space. The recessed lights allowed "light to serve as an element of the architectural experience" (Lucy did have a way with words.) I saw Maddy's door, heard her and heard you. It was a land mine and I wanted to pass without notice.

I heard Maddy's giggle. I heard your voice, soft and affectionate -a voice reserved for our daughter. I realized how much she missed you too. "Here" she -I knew- was giving you one of her books. I heard you say "If I read some of it to you, will you ask your imagination to finish the story while you sleep?"

"But why?" She was vacillating between excitement and exhaustion.

"Because you're tired sweetie."

I heard a rustle and I kept my eyes on the widow at the end of the hall. It was dark and revealed only the reflection of the white walls - a subtle illusion of movement as the light hit the wavy glass. This was hard to discern just a month ago. Illusion from hallucination. I remember now, that my mind has settled some-not completely- but I can see how elusive delusion is. Even now, the way you ask her to talk to her imagination. You have no way of knowing that hearing that, sends terror into me.

I didn't want to peek in. I didn't want to see you as her father. I didn't want to grow angry thinking of the woman—not even a beautiful young girl—do you know everyone said I was so much more attractive than Leora Hall? They did and it hurt me all the more that you chose her. Was I so offensive to you? Postpartum depression looming there, threatening to drag me out into that dark sea—and maybe this time (I think to myself) you don't want to be the one to save my life. You resent me for having to the first time. But once and for all I never asked you to save me.

I continued down the hallway. Once in motion, I didn't stop or even hesitate at Maddy's door. I didn't look in but I couldn't block the sound of her little cherub voice, but I could cancel out yours with the anger over the memory of your words. Do you remember? I'd asked you to tell me "tell me it's not what I think Edward! Tell me!"

You'd let out a breath and waited.

"Won't you please? I just had a baby. I'm so tired I need you," I'd insisted.

Was that so offensive to you?

It must have been. "I'll get the rest tomorrow."

"But wait. The rest? Won't you tell me you're not in love with Leora? Won't you."

"Annie." You stood in front of me. "I love you but things are hard now."

"Of course they are."

The silence was a reversal of gravity. I could have flown across the room. I left my body and saw myself suspended. I was too tired. My hormones were fluctuating. Things were beginning to take on a hue of darkness.

"Well call mom for me. Tell her to come."

"All right."
"Are you though? Are you in love with Leora Hall?

If you had said yes then really time would have stopped and maybe I would even have snapped out of everything. For me the moment of destiny was your confession 10 years ago at Georgetown that you'd never been in love with anyone else before me. That made me the only one you'd ever felt this way about. I wonder if for you, the moment of truth was saving my life that night on the beach. For me it was being the only one. "Are you though? Are you in love with her?"

This is what is scary to me, even know. Your eyes. Your blue green eyes, the way you looked at me the night you left me. I'd lost you to that ugly bitch. You never said you were in love with her so I concluded that you ere still in love with me. That this was some impossible mistake and I knew it was linked to that night on the beach. I knew, Edward and I understood. Truth be told, my depression was encompassing and with or without you the darkness would have distracted me, distanced me from the thought of you touching her—-being a complete stranger, someone I couldn't recognize.

"Hey Annie. She's out."

I turn and look at you. You'd found me back in the kitchen. I'd poured a glass of chianti. In the past I would have poured two, waited there for you to join me. But not now. With only the light over the farm sink. Another window reflecting the incandescence. The tall ceilings casting shadows. The glass to my lips.

"She's was a tired little girl." Pause. Your eyes pass over my wine glass. I can see you'd like one. That you'd like us to pass time, like we used to in the living room, me reclining the lawn green couch. You in the club chair, a fire in the hearth. That space: another renovation: old oak beams and the center piece, an arched white marble fireplace mantle. Found in New England. A house, really a mansion. Salvaged but designers aren't really archeologists or junk pickers, they don't salvage $15,000 mantles from estates. These items are commissioned, surgically removed by expert masons. Re-homing such treasures is a very costly endeavor. We'd been looking for so long-you had something in mind but weren't sure what. Instead we kept a metal plate over a brick chimney where once had been some stately mantle, even the tile had been pulled so it was just a sooty hearth and brick and metal. A year like that then Lucy texts, the phone chimes.

"I found it. Are you sitting down?" She texted.

We both looked at your phone screen and then at each other.

Lucy.

"Wait!" You typed. And looked serious. You took my hand and we tiptoed over to our overstuffed couch. You led me to sitting and we both sat. You called Lucy on face time.

"Oh look any you two." She said. Smiled but was also paying attention to her measuring tape held against something we couldn't see.

"Ok." You said. "tell us."

"I'll just say it. $14,000."

"What is?" You asked.

"Dollars?" I blurted.

She turned the screen away from here and held it in front of the mantle. I imagined her delicate, fingers, the large diamond and ruby rings as she zoomed in or scrolled. The tape measure snapped closed.

"Here I'll zoom in."

$14000 was a quarter of the down payment on our house, a phenomenal amount of money.

We both examined the image on the screen. The vertical fluting pattern. Center relief and three carved rosettes.

"See the corner rosettes here? In the rectangular frame —the lovely relief" Her elegant fingers are in the frame "it's the smoothest marble" she says. "liquid. It's French-the limestone."

We're both still inspecting. I'm considering the price, Edwards is contemplating the aesthetic.

"—the stone is (inhales and exhales slowly-we know she's shaking her head in awe) well, very pure but the hand worn patina gives it those variances of cream, white, the most subtle gray veins—we see her hand again caress the surface. ...—it's exactly you."

Now you are serious. "How high is it?"
"Wait." She says. I look to you for some communication but you are transfixed. Then a text comes through. Lucy has drawn a diagram of the mantle. The drawing itself could be a divimci...she captured the limestone and the three dimensional reliefs. And then in her perfect architecture print she's indicated the measurements " 118 cm tall, 164 cm wide, and 134 inside width.

I'd like to frame the drawing.

What's that in inches? I ask.

"Oh sorry. 46 1/2 inches tall, 64 1/2 wide. I already took your room into consideration. Edward, Annie—I'm right on this one, I'm sure—

"Where are you?" I ask.

"Edgartown"

"Martha's vineyard?" Edward clarifies.

"Yes, I was called here by a client-this estate—invitation preview."

"How will they get it here?" I ask. This is a stupid question but the inconceivability of how the rich do things is still sometimes startling to me.

You are nodding. "We'll figure that out." Then "really nice. I love it."

It's Lucy's patrician style and Audrey Hepburn look, back on the screen "I told you. I've already called some of my trusted appraisers here and abroad—it's French.The limestone was shipped here and the piece carved on site during the home's construction."

"Why are they taking it out?" I asked.

"Oh you know how these people are. Let's not question our good fortune, Annie. I'd like to get our offer accepted and secure the masons and movers. I'm guessing we can have it in DC in a month."

"Yes." You say. "Let's do it. I love it." You stop. "Sorry Lucy. Just a sec. Annie? You want to talk about it and call her back?"
I make an exaggerated "are you crazy' look and say "No let's get it!"
"Well then," Lucy's overheard. I've called some of my contemporaries and they think we could agree on closer to $12,0000 but if I have your permission to go up to asking then I'll be prepared to negotiate the best we can do."

"I love it Lucy," Edward says. "thank you for thinking of us."

She smiles, so maternal. I sometimes think she has a photographic memory and that she's flipping through possibilities for her clients at all time, sometimes looking sometimes waiting for synchronicity, sometimes hoping for serendipity.

"All right you two." She says. "all right." She is calm solemn, as if she's just given birth.

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Now-the night of Maddy's birthday party— we move to the living room, I wait before sitting down. Ordinarily I would have plunged into the sofa, with you beside me stretching my legs over your lap or leaning over your shoulder reading the Times together on your iPad. Not tonight. Instead, I move to the Chesterfield club. You sit on the couch close enough to the chair that we are only a few feet apart. Still close. Not the same but still close. It's all beautiful again.The endorphins or the aesthetic of the room. I love this room, Edward. I love this house. The white limestone—it looked better than even Lucy expected in here.

"Can we talk?" You ask me. How absurd Edward, we are already sitting down, I've already tacitly agreed to talking to you.

I take a sip but before I do, it slips out. Too much pressure. "Don't you have to go back to Leonore?" You see what I do. I change her name to one that I think is more fitting. To me the name Leora fits someone I'm not. Someone you wanted. The assertive, cosmopolitan woman. So I make her an old witch. Lenore. Leora is a softer, more feminine name.

"Want to make a fire?"

"No. I'm more a water person." Maybe you noticed that was off—it was one of those weird psychotic residuals -a blip. But by that time Edward, the psychosis was nearly gone, diluted into that expanse of sea—that place that exists between us, all around us. Our history. Our future

I've come to let these thoughts and associations drift away—that's actually a strategy I learned from the very cold, judgmental psychiatrist I have to see since I attempted suicide. Let them surface then watch them, Annie. Watch them drift away. Funny metaphor, if only she knew how Freudian.

"Don't you have to get back to Lenora" I repeat softly but in my head I'm screaming at you.

"It's Leora."

"Is it?" Sip of Chardonnay.

You nod, keep your eyes on me.

"So the fuck what if it's Leora?"
"You're right." You whisper. "So what."

I start to cry.

"No." You leave the discrepancy between us. "I don't have to be any where. I don't want to be anywhere else. I don't want anyone else— I want to be here because I'm a fucking idiot Annie. It's as though ever since the night on the beach— then I thought maybe you were drowning again—"

I put my glass on the table, I stand and walk over to you. You don't come to me. You don't have to persuade me. I go to you and you and you take the wine glass out of my hand. You place it on the bare wood near the edge of the heavy wool, Turkish rug.

Finally, your arms are around me. "Forget all of it." You whisper you kiss me on the top of my head. Your scent filled my senses. You filled me.

"I want to be with you Annie. I miss you."

A dizziness comes over me. I believed -in that moment- it was a test —all of it. Not just the affair but the postpartum breakdown—and I'd won. I told myself I'd won over Leora Hall — but really she wasn't someone I would have to compete against. Not in the long game—as you used to say about the conflict with your father. The long game.

I touched your face, traced the lines, the aesthetic of your features. I examined you the way Lucy did our antiques. Awe. I was careful. You are a rarity. You bent down and pressed your lips against mine. Lingered for a moment Then, finally, you kissed me then you led me to our bed. "I love you" You whispered. "I've missed you so much, Annie."

"Did you love me the whole time?" I ask you.

"Yes. So much Annie."

"Am I still the only woman you've ever been in love with?"

You stop and look into my eyes. "Yes."

The long front hallway became a movie set. The incandescent hue, warmer from endorphins, the work-the years of collecting and inheriting, passing the oil paintings that create a gallery on both sides of of us— I am not real. I am an actor playing an actor.

We never finished our bedroom. It is my only thought as your hands find the fabric tie of my wrap dress, the short zipper on the side, over my hip. "Come closer" you whisper. I let you undress me and I am examining your face and then focusing on brick wall behind you. The unfinished business of renovation. The wood floor, rough and in need of repair and refinishing, covered in a heavy Turkish rug. My eyes follow the lines of the rug...mesmerized by the wool knotted palmettes, the contours of the botanical decorations. A pale teal, Turkish Blue — coral medallion — so large the rug rolls up over the chipped painted baseboard. The window -we had to repair it early on- a wrought iron double French. Not an antique acquisition but still, we found a glazer to replace the newer panes with wavy-antique aesthetic glass.

You're still whispering to me "I love you" and I can't tell if the thick ink that is rising around us is desire or darkness. It doesn't matter. I let you hold me. I kiss you and we make love.

We make love.

We have an agreement I think. The terms I don't really know.

I wonder how you could ever leave this beautiful home.

Have we agreed that I forgive you? That I should never mention Lenora Hall? I would, I'd agree to this condition. To all of it, if I could be sure you'd never hurt me this way again. I wanted to know that no matter what is ahead for us, you love me. Your eyes are for me now. That we are each other's secret confidant. We know and understand each other. You roll over and light a cigarette.

I am so familiar with your body, your contours. When you strike the match, the yellow light illuminating your face, I think you are beautiful. I think you are Jesus Christ.

After your first drag, I take the cigarette and inhale a drag. I let it out. A moment passes, the smoke wafts in a small cloud above us, up towards the high ceiling, the metal beam, exposed—the scaffold of this room an industrial aesthetic that I can see now, we don't object to. The unfinished wide oak planks, the brick, steel beams. Each acquisition an edit to the room's story. The way you describe your short stories and now your novels. Each time you edit, you re-write and the narrative world becomes that much more real and defined-until you are satisfied the character is in a real world, nothing incomplete or half-lived. I hand the cigarette back to you. You keep one hand on my thigh. Your warmth transmits something permeant.

Tell me about it." I whisper.

You snuff out your cigarette in the crystal ashtray next to the bed and turn to me and smile.

"What?" You ask. You are whispering too. The inky ocean beneath me has completely disappeared—even from my consciousness.

"What what?" I've lightened my mood. Teasing. It's your eyes, their intensity.A focus on me. Only me. The prejudice in my favor now.

"Tell you about what?" You laugh, pull the down-blanket up over our naked bodies, over me first, then patting it down around us as you sit up next to me.

I trace your lips, your cheek. You take my hand and kiss my fingers—each one. "maybe not."

"About Leora?"

Her name. There between us. Out of your mouth.

I turn away from you. But You lean closer, "I want to tell you." You say, so close to me that you are saying the words against my skin, against my neck. I feel your warm breath, her name against my skin. It's a wretched intimacy. "I want to tell you about Leora. Annie— and I want you to forgive me. And Annie once and for all I want to talk about the beach. "

I ignore the beach. I will always ignore the beach. You've always succumbed to my tactics. Besides, at that moment. Right at that moment I thought only of your infidelity. A constant flicker: that you and this you. "Don't you love me?" I ask. I am pathetic. I am weak. I love you too much. You say your words against my flesh and I am crying into the pillow.

"I only love you." You don't whisper. You speak as if we are talking. You speak as if you never hurt me.

"I don't want to know." I say. I can't look at you. "Did you love her?"

This time you don't respond. The mattress shifts as you sit up. A moment passes and then another.

"Is this how it will be Annie?"

"What do you mean?"

"You ask questions and I am held hostage?"

I don't remember the rest. Honestly I don't.

I know we fell asleep but not too long after that Alexander woke crying and I rose and brought him into bed with us. I nursed him and he fell asleep while you remained in bed next to us.

Edward, this was all I wanted.