I hurriedly pick up the remains of my clothes from the floor and throw them in the kitchen trashcan. I leave his clothes folded on a chair in the room and discard the condom packet. I don’t know why I’m trying to hide this now; she’s already seen it, and I’m guessing by the raised voices, she’s making that clear.

Like a guilty, dirty secret, as if I’m his mistress and she’s the wife showing up and catching us, I’m scurrying around trying to erase what I’ve done. I’m also trying not to listen at the door, my heart doing some sort of cha-cha as I rush in circles. I’m...