I could see Humphrey Bogart, both hands clutching Ingrid Bergman’s arms through that trenchcoat. Bergman’s beautiful eyes full of tears, her agoni...ed expression ... what was it he said to her then? Something about a hill of beans? Their troubles weren’t worth a hill of beans, compared to all the trouble going on in the world around them.I briefly considered telephoning Judith. She wasn’t even back in Durham yet. I could call her, caution her not to tell Emily about our little indiscretion.But. You told me not to be but as I sit here on the train...I’m nervous.I’m in a daze as I leave the train and wander through the park...looking down the street looking for that door. You said it would stand out but in my mind it stands out as that moment...that moment when I decide to walk through your door and begin to heal, to forgive myself for others mistakes.You open the door to me, you’re wearing lounge pants and my eyes drift over your chest...up to your eyes...those eyes that first drew me. ” I said quickly. She smiled. “You look familiar. Have we fucked before?” “No.” I didn't know what else to say.“OK. Well follow me.” she told me and I got into my car and followed. Pulling up to her house, something else hit me, she was married.“Are you married?” I asked her bluntly as we got out of the cars.“Yes. But he's cool with it.”Her response didn't really put me at ease. I began to feel less comfortable with each step towards the house. She unlocked the front door and lead me up to the. I can only imagine her comfort because she does not allow me, like other husbands, to enjoy the "rights" of the husband. On this cold November night she has decided that I am to sleep in the "bitch cage". A cage placed under the basement stairs. Her decision on where I sleep, like most of her decisions regarding my level of discomfort, seems to be purely arbitrary; a fleeting whim that I must endure long after she has forgotten my existence. My night is spent not so much in restful sleep, nor.
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