The Tuesday Group.

On entering the room I discerned a snigger on the face of (married) P. Last week he slipped his confession of congress with L. under the wave of B.'s outburst. And so he sat there, justified in his brown cords, his billowing white shirt, as if the understanding of the group amounted to the approval of his wife. I had the momentary desire to make a personal call on her myself. Instead, I decided to break the bastard.

I took my time. I sensed that P.'s desire for L. was also a resentment towards me, a plain and simple act of oedipal theft and so, the conversation veering toward mothers, I went for the jugular. What is it about L. that you are drawn to?

He wanted to help her.

To save her, perchance? As when a child sneaking into his mother's bed was a way of saving her? The squirming runt then chortled a few words up toward the ceiling, exposing his throat. And he wanted to help her. I was reminded of a paedophile telling me the same thing a few years ago and as P. slowly began to blush, savouring his introjected delight, I turned to the rather elegant L. How did she feel about P.? And in the asking of the question, the affair was ended. As I closed the door on the crummy lot, yearning for some Wagner to clear the air, I found myself with the opposite impulse, scanning the shelves for my de Sade.