As I drove toward my apartment, I couldn’t help but think about how sex affects the human animal in a way no drug can rival. Right or wrong, we keep score and settle conflicts with it. In most instances, someone who wants to hurt you must act on you, but not so with sex. They hurt you by interacting with someone else. I pictured Rayanne with her legs spread wide in accommodation—her labial gates wrapped tight around Erik’s glistening girth as he cycled in and out of her. I wondered where I was and what I was doing the first time she begged him to come inside her.

To complete the insult, she’d asked for a trial separation, which translated to me as an excuse to fuck someone else without bothering to file for divorce. But I had just gotten honked by an adorable little sprite. It hit me like a bolt of vengeful delight—if Rayanne ever found out what Riley did to me, she’d spit nails, boyfriend or not. I knew her that well.

As I drove past our home of twenty years, Erik was just pulling out of the driveway. I slowed to a stop at the curb, gripped by a sudden compulsion to talk to Rayanne. I had no intention of trying to win her back or even make amends. The bell of iniquity cannot be un-rung. But Riley’s promiscuous performance had left me wrought with a sense of empowerment. I wanted to interact with my guilty wife, knowing the pungent taste of my seed still salted a young beauty’s taste buds. Something told me it would change my outlook. It was only ten o’clock, so I made up the excuse of needing to pick up a few tools from the basement.

I backed my truck into the driveway and hustled up the front walk. Seeing the doorbell button cracked, I knocked. As I stood with my hands in my pockets, the outside light flicked on and the curtains moved. “Sari,” squawked Rayanne as she opened the door wearing a sleek robe she had evidently bought to show off for Erik. “You-you really shouldn’t be here.”

“Just need my jigsaw and a few heavy clamps,” I replied, rushing past her. “I’ll come by Saturday and box up the rest...maybe fix the doorbell your dufus broke.”

“Take your time and get what you need,” she called as I went down the basement stairs.

As I came back up with my saw and electric sander she argued, “And Erik will fix the doorbell.”

“Sounds good,” I mumbled on my way past. “Leave the light on. I need a few more things.” I hustled down the walk and tossed the tools in the back of my truck.

When I entered the house, I passed Rayanne again. Pinching the sides of her gray satin robe she followed me down the stairs. “Since you’re here checking up on me, maybe we should talk about the status of our separation.”

“Not checking up, just getting tools. You shouldn’t be down here barefoot.”

“Not checking? At ten o’clock?”

“I’ve been busy helping Corey move. Maybe you could just text me your verdict.”

Rayanne’s deep brown eyes opened wide as she watched me wrap my apron over my dad’s carpenter square and level.

“You really are building something,” she capitulated. “What is it?”

“It’s just a folding blind to keep cats from jumping onto the sill of a picture window.”

“Cats? Corey hates cats. I thought you did, too.”

“And you claimed to know me,” I quipped, tossing a few more items in my toolbox. “A friend asked a favor and I wanna help, so whatever you decide, just let me—”

“Sari,” she interrupted. “Stop for a second, please. I’d like to talk to you. Please stay and have a glass of wine. You can be cordial, can’t you?”

I didn’t answer, but I watched out the corner of my eye as her lanky legs carried her up the stairs. A minute later, as I lugged my heavy toolbox up the stairs, she met me with a glass of Pinot. “Stay for half an hour,” she pleaded, leading me to the sofa.

Rayanne had lost my trust, but not my eye. She’d betrayed me, but the pulsing in my crotch wasn’t a matter of trust. Besides, for a gal of forty-six, she was damn good looking—hot enough to attract a pretty-boy athlete, in fact. Her long, wavy black hair framed a deep, dark gaze and pouty red lips. She tugged the lapels of her robe tight as she sat, trying to hide the silvery satin nightgown beneath it—also purchased during our trial separation. “I’m not going to file right away,” she said, then sighed. “But I think...” She paused and lowered her head. “I-I think we should stay separated.”

One more thing I’ve found about sex—when it rains, it pours. I should have been crying like a cuckold, but I knew my semen was coursing through a college girl’s veins as I spoke to a guilt-ridden Rayanne. I thought of it sloshing in Riley’s tummy along with tequila chasers. No cuck here, I thought to myself as I set my glass on the coffee table and leaned in for a kiss.

“I mean it,” she insisted. “Didn’t you hear me?”

“Loud and clear,” I whispered, almost brushing noses with her. “We’re separated. Now kiss me.”

“I-I can’t.”

“Confused?” I asked, halving the gap.

“Yes, but there’s more to it.”

“Let me simplify it...I just want sex.”

“But Erik just left.”

“I don’t want sex with him, I want it with you.”

“Sari,” she whined. “Think about it...he just left.”

Sniffing her breath, I asked, “What’s wrong? Would I taste him if I kissed you?”

“Don’t be silly. You know I don’t do that. But we-we had sex. He-He’s...in me.”

“This should be interesting,” I whispered, spreading the lapel of her robe and dropping it off her tanned shoulders.