At Starbucks, he pretended not to have burned the roof of his mouth. He said nothing as Michelle established the rules - his tongue only, anywhere. He knew her grin was in response to his red face.
That night, at dinner, he tried not to feel like the stereotypical adulterer when his daughter told a joke and his wife laughed.
The next night, he e-mailed his wife that he needed to work late. Later, at Michelle's apartment, she made him strip while she sipped wine. On his knees, he licked the body parts she presented - forearms, neck, legs, hands, back, ass.
She smiled down at him. "Happy about the arrangement?"
He nodded, thinking he needed assurances that none of her friends knew about him and that she didn't think him some pathetic cliche. The words never got out of his larynx.
She pushed him on his back, straddled his face, dangled her cell phone a foot from his nose. "Bet your wife would love a picture from this angle."
His laugh came out like a small bark. She said "click" and put the camera down. He smiled at her, hoping it wasn't as sad-looking as it felt. In a few minutes his wife would be picking up their daughter from daycare.
Michelle ground him into the floor, apparently bent on making his face even redder. He closed his eyes and tried not thinking about his family, his high cholesterol, his inability to ever feel more than okay about things. He took her full weight on his face, tried to follow her instructions, and hoped one day to forgive himself.
