North Beach rotates: 45 degrees, then 90, steeper. Reach for something to steady you, find nothing. Underside of your lip chapped, tongue a withered thing. Making love in Portland, a hot Memorial Day Weekend, hurrying before your host returns. Memory reddens your cheeks, anger a flush.
“What do you want?” you say, except not really.
"I’m sorry,” you say for real.
Him upstairs, waiting. Checking his phone, glancing over his shoulder at – what? Anything? He calls your husband The Warden. “That thing on your phone,” he says. “That – tracker.”
You have trackers on each other. Somehow that fact always escapes him.
“Four hours now,” your husband says. “Saturday night. I’m the babysitter. You’re on your date.”
You protest. You squirm. You push back, eyes on City Lights Bookstore across the way. How is this a date?
“Then come home,” he says, “and prove it’s not.”
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