“It’s the lying,” she said, spent and speaking to her lover, in a dreamy state that did nothing to soothe the knots in her stomach “it’s the lying that makes this so hard.”
“What about it is so difficult,” he asked, sleepily. He said it to the void, drifting, not really caring about what she did or did not tell her husband.
“I’m having an affair. It would kill him of he found out. So I say I was off shopping or with friends or working late, but I never know if he’ll uncover the lie and then the truth will unravel.”
“It sounds like a conundrum.” He said it matter-of-factly, dispassionately, and it sat in the air like a fossil waiting to be dug up. “Would another orgasm make you feel better?”
“Possibly.” She replied, cautiously.
“Well, have at it then; I’m having a nap.”
And he rolled over then and was sleeping soundly shortly thereafter while she stared at the ceiling fiddling her worry into a larger ball that rested between her stomach and her liver until she felt numb. Then she took a shower, got dressed and left.