~ Michael ~

The urge has been building in my gut for days, a restless need I can no longer ignore.

My wife spends her evenings complaining about her aching legs, wincing whenever my hand so much as brushes her thigh.

When she isn't groaning about her body, she's talking about Father Romanus—fretting over why the priest hasn't been coming around lately.

If I didn't know the holy man had ironclad morals, I'd suspect there was something between them.

But Father Romanus is a saint.

At least, that's what I tell myself.

I love my wife. I do. But lately, I've begun convincing myself that wanting something different doesn't make...