She
stood in the shower for as long as anyone should in drought-intolerant
Berkeley, scrubbing, scrubbing. It was two-thirty. She really didn’t have to
pick up Lennon for another hour, but lying to Jack seemed to be the least of
what she’d done that afternoon.
The
guilt was beginning to settle, and it was not light on her shoulders. Bricks
felt better, more forgiving. The streak of not having kissed anyone else since
hooking up with her husband? Gone.
The fidelity she’d maintained all these years? Evaporated. The virtue of doing what one is supposed to do in wedded
bliss? Shown to be a complete sham.
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