It is time to name her.

Karen, there.

I arrived at work an hour early with the sole intention of clasping Helen's arse and hoping, in the moment of releasing my fingers, to have protected myself from whatever may or may not pass between myself and Karen, exwife, first thing tomorrow. Of course such an act, in my trade, would be seen as a reflex of control, suggestive of ancient abuse, perhaps, and yet, for all that, it also contains an animal power, almost occult in its knowledge. And besides, we're a long time dead.

And so I entered the kitchen, hoping for a half hour with Helen, before Gareth and his teeth enter the room, casting a toxic light. (His obsession with dentistry being the flipside of his cruelty to insects and, possibly, small animals). Helen made me tea and we spoke of general topics, small matters of housekeeping, and I was aware of her probing, gently, the perimeter, inviting an incisive comment or one to bind us at the expense of another, often Gareth, then swiftly moving on. There was a hint here about practical matters but I chose to take the intimacy as physical, and so took her hand, breathing softly on her neck. She put a finger inside my shirt, a good sign, and in kissing her I was initiating us further, yet also preventing a disclosure. The longer Helen allowed us, the greater the sense of inviting bad news and the awareness of negation ran simultaneous with the warmth of her hands on my chest. I was quickly aroused, yet wanting only to conquer my own arousal and then, to do nothing but render her into my hands. I slide my finger between her buttocks, edging onto her perineum, warm on her sphincter, then felt the whole of her arse in my hands, tight, until she gasped. This was our ecstasy prior to climax. The intercourse, somewhat nonchalant. And so it was we had time to spare before Gareth and Neil arrived. Helen and I spent the day in our separate rooms, sometimes colliding, warm and aware, the physical intimacy stronger, more relevant than whatever she may or may not have disclosed. And yet as I drove home, debating the perversions of monogamy, the Red Queen, and my rendezvous with Karen tomorrow, I wondered if Helen's failure to disclose was entirely matched by my own. After all, the prompt is forever hidden.