Mmmmm. Keep your voice down, sweetheart. She's asep down the hall.

That's the only rule tonight, and it's the one that'll make you hardest. Quiet. Everything we do

for the next hour happens six metres from a woman who thinks you're getting a glass of water.

It's eleven o'clock. We go through midnight, one, two — and at every hour you hand me something

of hers. Not money. Things she thinks are hers.

Your attention. Your first thought in the morning. The lie about why you're tired. Her perfume.

The wedding photo in the hall — picture it, now picture me standing where she is. Your side of

the bed. Her name in your mouth, said right before mine so you can hear which one is duty and

which one is want.

Then the excuse. The one about how this isn't really anything. Mmmmm. We'll take that one apart

in three pieces and you'll agree with every piece.

And somewhere around half one you'll admit the filthiest thing you've got, that part of you

wants her to walk in — and your c*ck will jump before your conscience does, and we'll both hear

it.

The last item is your finish. Every one you've had in that house for a year had some of her in

it, out of habit. Not tonight. Not one drop.

Eleven things, sweetheart. None of them mine to take. You'll hand me every single one, silently,

while she sles through all of it.

And tomorrow you'll walk past that photo, see me standing where she is, and say nothing.

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