”“Fine. But some stuff. It’s ridiculous for your stuff to be out here all the time. My mistress, fine.” Was that what she was? “My wife, absurd. So why don’t you start the kitchen work while I shift closets? Don’t put anything on the fire but get stuff out. I’ll be only five minutes.” This seemed reasonable. Bill was always more believable when he was being practical than when he was leering lustfully.When she had gone as far as she could in the kitchen without danger of getting something on her dress, he was almost done with his move. She noticed that he hadn’t touched the makeup bag.“Okay?” she asked.“Fine. There are still a lot of hangers on my side of the closet. Take any you need. I didn’t sort them out, yet.” She figured he meant to take empty hangers, though that wasn’t what he’d said. She dressed in her school clothes, not counting underwear, and put his robe on top of everything. She hung up her dress and -- when she’d considered the alternatives -- her slip.“I figured since. He understood my getting drunk and fucking a stranger. But it wasn't healthy, Rick warned me, as the brush slid through my long hair, to continue to dwell on it. The thing was over, the man was gone, and it was time to move on.I listened, and tried to accept what Rick said. I nodded now and then, and mumbled a response or two.I wept. For the first time since all of this finished, I cried. Openly and without trying to stop, I bawled my eyes out, and somehow the hurt flowed with the tears. Not all of it. It's not as though it could just be washed away, but perhaps enough.I lay in silence after that, listening without actually listening to Rick, liking the feel of the brush in my hair, and the timbre of his voice, and the silence of the house.I stayed still, with my eyes closed and my mind wandering, and perhaps I slept for a minute or two.Somehow, in any case, an idea slid quickly through my mind. A sex dream perhaps, whether I was actually asleep or not. One of those vaguely.
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