He had the same first name as her husband. Which will be confusing, but was extremely convenient for her. She could scream out his name while her husband fucked her or whisper it urgently while masturbating furiously on a sweat-soaked night while he lay sleeping beside her, and never ever have to worry about him saying "who?" in a highly inopportune fashion ruining the spell and the moment.

Or so she thought. Or so he assumed she thought, for in truth when she yelled out his name as he fucked her, or whispered it deep in those hours of the night when he assumed she assumed he was sleeping, he assumed it was him. The other one. The one who had married the girl he'd admired after he'd married his wife, that is, had married her after he'd married his wife - the admiring had started earlier.

For he saw the way she admired him. The way she fawned, simpered and giggled. She never fawned with him, and she only giggled when he touched her and her mind was elsewhere, on dinner, or kids, or television, or him. The other one. The big broad-shouldered dark-haired muscular one. Especially at the wedding in his tuxedo, standing on the balcony with his bride for pictures "like a prince" she'd said. "Sure," he'd said, "like a prince," assuming images of a royal fucking, sampling an imagined leakage of images from her mind into his. Like a prince.

In truth it was more obsession than assumption. When they visited from out of town, having moved out of town after the wedding, he admired again the beauty of her face, the girl he'd admired before he married his wife, a tall and lithesome creature, with the longest most beautiful, most lickable neck he could ever hope to imagine. Tall people. Thrown together by height, the girl he'd admired and her husband, whom his wife admired. He'd alternate between watching her, watching her neck, watching his wife, watching her fawn, and giggle, watching him, trying to figure him out, if there was any reciprocation, or whether he was stuck on the height thing, unable to even notice a pass from a person so much shorter.

Watched one evening at dinner, years later, all through dinner, visually immersed in neck and ear, in eye and cheek and awkward grace across the table, in stolen glances, fleeting gestures, half hidden smiles on either side, both sets of children, oblivious, already upstairs at play. Made small talk with her across the table as he and his wife cleared the table, in and out of the kitchen door, dishes clinking in the sink and dishwasher, until for over a minute there had been no out, and even less clink. Rose, gathered her glass, gathered his glass, both, as yet, ungathered, stepped softly toward the kitchen door, opened, just a crack, looked through. Saw his broad back and her hand exploring his broad back, her other hand pulling his head down, the hand on the back snaking back to the front, exploring the chest, perhaps, or even lower, his hands nowhere to be seen, perhaps exploring breasts so much bigger than those to which he was accustomed, heard whimpering noises, little cries of delight following the sound of his zipper, could not see through the broad strong back but imagined her kneeling, worshiping, licking, sucking, saw the broad obscuring back tense, the head pitch back and then forward in ecstasy, closed the door, returned to his chair.

"Everything OK?" she asked.

"Everything fine" he said. Everything fine.