May We Be Forgiven

told your husband?”
    She shrugs. “They might have assumed that he knew, and, more to the point, I felt the need. I’m not deceitful by nature.”
    “What did he say?”
    She looks down again. “He said he was glad to have someone to share the burden with. And was I seeking a divorce or just entertainment?”
    “And?”
    “I said entertainment, and he said, ‘Well, then, I won’t worry unless you tell me there’s something to worry about.’”
    “It’s nice he trusts you to use your own judgment about when he should be worried.”
    “I’m very trustable,” she says, and then is quiet. “He asked if you pay me; he always wants to pay someone. And I asked if he’d ever ‘strayed,’ and he said no.”
    “Why not?”
    “Scared,” she says.
    “Of what?” I ask
    She shrugs. “I told him that if he wanted to he should. He’s got hooker fantasies. I said, ‘Do it’; he said, ‘I can’t.’ And then I asked him, ‘Do you want me to do it with you?’ ‘Like, you would participate?’ he asked. ‘No, like I would just go with you,’ I said. ‘That’s very nice of you,’ he said. ‘Since when am I not nice?’ I asked him.”
    “So?” I ask, surprised by all of it—wanting more.
    “So I went with him.”
    “When?”
    “Last Tuesday, after work.”
    “To whom did you go?”
    “He got a number from a guy he knows.”
    “And you didn’t tell me?” I ask.
    “You were busy.”
    “How was it?”
    “I have no idea. I sat in the girl’s living room and read a magazine—my own that I brought with me—and I kept my coat on, and then I washed it when we went home. I was careful not to touch things.”
    “Did your husband have a good time?”
    “He was glad to get it out of his system—but it was weird.”
    “In what way?”
    “He said her breasts were enormous. I met her before he went in; they looked big but not that big. He said they were hard like basketballs. And she wouldn’t kiss him.”
    “Anything else?”
    “Her pookie was completely waxed, from front to back. He’d never seen such a thing—he used the word ‘industrial.’ In the middle of it all, her roommate came home and said she needed to get something from the bedroom. She acted innocent enough, but I whipped out the kitchen knife I’d brought from home, figuring it was all part of the plan: the roommate comes home and they hold the guy hostage for more money. I don’t think she was planning on seeing me there. I told her, My husband is in the other room having private time with the roommate, and if you scream or ruin it for him, I’ll kill you. She and I sat quietly on the sofa. I told her it wouldn’t be long—it’s always quick with him. When he came out and saw me there, defending his … his … whatever you want to call it, I think he was very impressed. It was good for our marriage.”
    “Really?” I ask, somewhat skeptical.
    “It opened things up,” she says, “took us to a whole new level.”
    I’m stunned.
    “He wants to meet you,” she says.
    “For sex?”
    “No, just to say hello, maybe dinner.” She smiles. “And you thought you were the only one with news.”
    “So you’re not upset about the A& P woman?”
    “Of course I’m upset,” she says. “You’re shtupping some chick you met at your grocer’s dairy case who doesn’t even have a name. What exactly is it that you like about her?”
    “It’s hard to put a finger on—she’s kind of mysterious.”
    “It sounds like you don’t know her very well.”
    “You’re not being nice.”
    “You don’t even know her name,” she reminds me.
    “You know what I like about her?” I say. “She demands nothing of me.”
    Cheryl scrapes the last drops out of the yogurt cup; the Styrofoam squeaks. She checks her phone. “Gotta go,” she says, getting up abruptly.
    “Are you dumping me?” I ask, suddenly vulnerable.
    She looks at me like I’m crazy. “Which part of my-husband-wants-to-meet-you-for-dinner sounded like I was dumping you?”
    “Sorry,” I say, “it’s been a very weird day.”

    T hat evening, I finally speak to Ashley. “Are you okay?”
    She doesn’t say anything.
    “Was that an invisible shrug? It’s not a video phone.”
    “Uh-huh.”
    “Is there anything you want to tell me?”
    “Not really.”
    “Are you alone? I mean, are you somewhere where you are at liberty to speak?”
    “There’s no one here,” she says.
    “You sound sad,” I observe.
    I can hear her clothing