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Sarah isn't home to witness your slump-shouldered, bowed head, half-drunk entrance into your apartment. You're sure the shame of infidelity hangs about you like a mist, swirling around your head with the martini fog and dripping onto the floor with each step. This was never supposed to have happened, but now it's lodged there in the immediate past like a rail spike driven into a car tire. You light a shaky cigarette and sit on the edge of the couch, watch it trail white smoke into the air. Maybe you're daydreaming. Maybe nothing happened. Maybe, if you can believe it didn't happen, you can forget it. Maybe.

  You stub the cigarette out, walk into the bathroom and strip naked. You turn the shower on and step into the stream. At first. the water's cold and raises goose bumps on your flesh, but then it warms until it nearly scalds you. You look down at yourself and shake your head, unable to believe you could be so easily over-ruled on such a simple, patently established rule. You rub the bar of soap over your body absently, letting the sudsy film be immediately swept away after each pass. No amount of scrubbing will cleanse the inside of you. Stupid, you think to yourself, so stupid.

  You look up into the stream of water and close your eyes, letting the thin streams pelt your face and break into thousands of droplets which scatter down your chest and carom off the shower curtain. Is this how you thought it would feel? Is this how it feels for everyone, you wonder? The humiliating shame of knowing you have sunk so low that you can, perhaps, never recover? No, this feeling, you believe, is reserved only for you. It is heavier than that of any other shame-bearing person because it is yours. Before, you used to think you understood how a person could be so easily led astray, and empathized with them while hiding your scorn at their weakness. But now you see the weakness in yourself, don't you? If you can sink so low, then surely everyone can, and you are no better than anyone. No more special than the next man on the street waiting for the bus to arrive. Perhaps, even, you are worse.

  But the water will not purify you, and, as you stand there, afraid to sob, you are even further lowered by the remembrance of how much you liked it. How you told yourself that it didn't matter and how it must be good because it felt good. Surely, if you hadn't wanted it, you could have left. Yes, you remember the heave of her breasts and the feel of her legs around you.... So different, wasn't it? So good. And now you regret it. Wish it had never happened. Is that it?

  Or is it that you never want to be caught? Is that what you're thinking as you turn your eyes to the drain and watch the water swirl through the small openings? It's Sarah's hair clogging the drain, and you move it with your toe, but can you move this memory to somewhere in the back of your brain? Can you?

  You turn the water off, towel the water from your body and walk naked through the apartment to the bedroom. Draped over the chair in the corner are Sarah's work clothes and you wonder how long she was home. What did she think you were doing when you were pressing your lips into this other woman's shoulder, biting at her flesh? Did she think you were sitting at a table, tape recorder rolling, asking questions about the art world? You can only hope. You look at the clock, it is half-past ten and Sarah is still out. If you're lucky, you think, she won't come home until after you have slipped into deep sleep. Then, when tomorrow comes, you can slip into the world and put a full day between yourself and this evening. Do you really think that will disguise the trail? Twenty-four hours?

  So you pull on a pair of boxers and a T-shirt and walk back into the living room. The liquor is still heavy in your blood, and the memories of her fingernails scraping along your back are still too luminous to let you sleep now. You get a beer from the refrigerator and walk into the living room. Perhaps a beer will bring the world back into focus. Maybe it will drown out the taste of her mouth or the feel of her probing fingers as they kneaded the back of your thighs. Perhaps it will weaken the tight grasp of her arms and legs as she pressed herself to you at that last moment, shuddering to a climax and sinking into the cushions just moments after you had left a part of yourself within the latex sheath separating you from her.

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