The Affair Read Online Free Page B

out a hand. “Friends?”
    I reached out and shook his hand. “Yeah. Friends.” My voice wavered. My hand felt scorched. He started to pull me toward him—I
     felt an almost imperceptible tug—then he stopped. He must have sensed my terror. I wanted it so desperately. I was not ready.
    I have replayed that kiss a hundred—no, a thousand—times since then. The office has been closed for the holidays. I’m almost
     afraid to go back.
    ’Til next time,

December 24
    I am sitting here in the same clothes I’ve worn all day, the same clothes I slept in, sweatpants so rank I can smell them.
     I haven’t showered in forty-eight hours because I haven’t been able to carve out the six minutes I need to hop in the shower,
     blast my hair with the dryer, and slap on some makeup. Instead, I’ve spent the last forty-eight hours preparing for this most
     joyous of holidays. I’ve assembled Pete’s new Fisher-Price workshop (Roger, as usual, pleaded mechanical incompetence), I’ve
     hauled out the Christmas dishes and set the table. I picked up the Santa costume Roger insists on renting every year (though
     vanity prohibits him from faking the fat belly, which invariably leads Pete to ask, “Mommy, what’s wrong with Santa?”).
    ’Til next time,

January 8
    The sky is white, the air is wet and cold. I have such a hunger to be held. I imagine Eddie’s thick arms wrapped around me,
     imagine burying my face in his broad chest. I try to picture myself in Roger’s embrace and just can’t do it. The desire isn’t
     there. I lost it when he stopped wanting me. Are there women out there who can lust after a husband who clearly has no interest
     in them? I can’t.
    I remember when he would fix his gaze on me as I undressed. He’d say, “You look good,” and I knew he wanted me and his wanting
     stirred my own lust. Now I undress and his eyes are fixed on the hockey game and I’m just another piece of furniture. Granted,
     I don’t have the body I did before Pete was born, but that shouldn’t matter, should it? I’ve known all kinds of women—my own
     clients—fleshy, jiggly, round women who have sex with their husbands. It can’t be about my body, can it?
    So I don’t imagine Roger holding me now. I imagine Eddie. I see the wisps of black hair trailing from his belly to beneath
     his pants and wish I could run a finger along that trail. I smell the soap on his skin. I can almost feel the softness of
     his lips on mine. It feels so good to know that somewhere in this city is a man who wants me. Why am I torturing myself like
     this?!?
    Last night I was determined to talk to Roger about our marriage. I had the name of a therapist I respected (we both worked
     at the hospital after I got my degree), and I wanted to make an appointment. So what do I do instead? Like a crazy woman I
     ask—in the middle of
NYPD Blue
—“Are you having an affair?” He mutes theTV (he would never actually turn it off) and says, “What in the world are you talking about?”
    “Well, I mean, you never want to make love anymore. Is there someone else?”
    He rolled his eyes. “Is it that time of the month, perchance?”
    I knew what was happening. Obviously, I was projecting. But I couldn’t stop myself. “No, it’s not that friggin’ time of the
     month, Roger. Just tell me, are you screwing around?”
    He laughed and clicked the sound back on. “If you want to have a conversation about why we’re not having sex, that’s fine.
     But if you’re going to make up some crazy story about me and another woman, forget it.”
    I rolled over and switched off my lamp.
    ’Til next time,

January 16
    Now this is interesting.
    Just after I got Petey into bed I heard the phone ring. Roger picked up. I listened for a moment, trying to discern if the
     call was for me. Apparently not. He was talking in a familiar tone. Who could it be? His mother? His sister? I walked by the
     bedroom and saw him stretched out on the bed. He looked