When I heard Martha open the door, I listened for something different—a hesitancy, an extra sigh from the doorframe--as if maybe she might consider not coming in at all. Her bag thudded against the floor, in the same spot she drops it every day, and she continued into the bedroom to change out of her work clothes.

She showered, touched-up her make-up, brushed her teeth, for forty-five minutes, all before coming to say hello to me. I waited on the couch, staring at a lamp we bought from IKEA, a flat panel of striated colors, not like a rainbow, more like a rainbow whose rays had bled and dripped down through one another.

She went into the kitchen, pajamas hugging her ass, tits perfect and perky, no bra, and my desire to stand and yell, “You fucking bitch, how dare you come here and pretend that nothing happened,” was replaced with other intentions.

“Hello,” she said. She had taken a yogurt from the fridge, and sat down facing the television. She peeled back the lid. She was less easy to molest in this position, but I walked behind her anyway. She always liked backrubs—begged me for them, and most of the time I declined. But here it was a tool to the next step, and I could be bothered. I started at her shoulders, then ran my hands down over her collar bone, down the flatness of her upper-chest, and under her shirt, cupped her breasts.

“Steven. Not now. Stop.” Her shoulders pinched forward, squeezing her chest away from my hands. I returned to her shoulders, kneading her soft tan flesh, knotted below the right shoulder blade, as always. I pictured her atop another man, his chest sculpted, his hair long and soft, and I dug two fingers into the tensed-up knotted flesh. She cried out in pain.

“Sorry.” I sat down on the couch. “Who’s Jarred?”

“Jarred?” She looked to the ceiling, pinched her lips. She was good. “I don’t know—Jarred? I work with a Jarred. Skinny guy with big ears. Kind of funny though.”

Then I showed her the e-mails and told her to get the fuck out.