Diana

I want to say that he knew how to work me masterfully, but that wouldn't quite be accurate.

The truth is, I made it easy for him.

He is my husband, Leif Tiesman. There's a pun in the last name somewhere, something to do with keeping me tied up, but I can't figure it out so it's anything other than sad. I'm Diana. Diana Tiesman.

People always said I looked like Diane Lane in that movie, Under the Tuscan Sun, and I always thought that was ironic since, in that movie, Diane Lane's character left her cheating husband and took off for an Italy that looks absolutely ideal to me — the sun glinting on her copper-penny hair, making her look fiery where my copper-penny hair felt more like it reflected my worth — and she starts her life anew, alone, strong.

I did not do that.

Though fantasies like that had flittered through my brain many times, my one true goal in life had always been to be the perfect wife and mother.

And like the perfect wife that I set out to be, and the bound being I became, I have been agreeable for seven years of marriage. So agreeable. I have made favorite dinners, made a point of Not Questioning Him, created a beautiful home and let him have the TV remote, and I've blown him till my cheeks ached.

Why? you must be asking. Anyone with any sense would ask that. Hell, if I were talking to my friend and she was the one saying all this subservient stuff, I would sure as hell be asking her why she thought he was worth so much more than she was.

But the truth is, when you're in it, that's not how you're looking at it. You can't even see the logic about your own situation, even while you might be wildly protective of a friend who isn't going through half as much as you are. When you're in it, you want the high. The win. The kiss. The body. The dizzying glee of having just had fantastic sex. Okay, maybe that's not the case for everyone, but it was certainly the case for me. Some part of me will always fight that impulse. I always resist when people liken it to an addiction — loving a person seems like it should be different from being addicted to them — but the reality is, that's exactly what it is.

With Leif, I always felt like if I had just a little bit more, I'd be strong enough to get away. A little more sex so I'm not longing for him, a little more time so maybe I can get stronger in my anger with him. Staying in the hot water just that little bit longer, so that the frigid cold doesn't feel so bad. Something — anything — to make the leaving easier.

But then he gave me that gift.

Or, rather, I took it.

It was an ordinary night. I lay in the dark on my side of the queen-sized bed, listening to my husband's deep, even breathing in the dark. As if he hadn't a care in the world.

The sonofabitch.

How could it be so easy for him to lie down and sleep, like one of those old baby dolls whose eyes closed when you tipped them backward? Meanwhile, I had to lie there in anguish, pounding heart, racing mind, skin prickling as if I were entering a nuclear fallout zone?

I knew something was wrong. I mean, I always knew something was wrong. But moreover, I knew exactly what it was. I wasn't born yesterday. The pain of my marriage wasn't even born yesterday. Leif had a long, cruel history of sneaking dalliances with other women, and I had a long, unfortunate history of trying to pretend it wasn't true. Or that his apology and acknowledgment meant something and it wouldn't happen again. Or that I was overreacting.

Or that it was "normal."

Man, I had a whole lot of counterproductive stances on my own husband's cheating, and I had paid the price again and again, and let him coast.

But tonight he'd come in from work after ten, swearing he was having postwork drinks with "colleagues" (I was never sure whether it was damning or honest to list them as "colleagues" versus names so specific they were obviously meant to fool me). And at least this time he had not smelled like a delicate, floral perfume I would have liked so much that, under any other circumstances, I would have asked the wearer what the name of it was. That was a particularly specific humiliation.

However, he did have the telltale smear of lipstick on his cheek, and across the plane behind his ear and down his neck. Cheek could be innocent, but the roadmap from his cheek down his neck was obviously intimate. You might kiss your grandmother's cheek, but you weren't going to trail your lips across her ear and down her neck. Suddenly I had a brand-new measuring stick for suspicion.

This was suspicious. I mean, undeniably so. Even for me, who had lived in denial for so long there was a hackneyed Egypt joke in it.

Leif sighed — didn't start, didn't react to a dream, just became so additionally relaxed in his sleep next to my agitation, like a man with no secrets or guilt, that he actually sighed.

In a movie he probably would have sighed some girl's name. Reached for a dream head in front of his crotch.

I didn't realize I was holding my breath until the suffocation took over and I let it out in one too-short burst, having trouble drawing back more into my lungs.

I wanted to ignore this. Damn it, I wanted to ignore this and not have a problem. I could just wake up in the morning, make his breakfast, clean the house, meet a friend for lunch, read, go to my community college jewelry-smithing class, and then come home and watch TV (with or without Leif, depending on when he got home — by day he was an ordinary-seeming businessman, but he was also attractive enough to be a talking head on TV news if there was a particularly weird criminal case) until it was time to get up and do it again in the morning.

I turned my head and looked at his beautiful profile in the half-light of the blue moon, shining in through the window and casting his skin in an ethereal (one might also say "angelic") glow.

Damn it!

He was beautiful. Not in a ridiculous way, not a soap actor you just knew was gay; he was just striking. He had liquid brown eyes that changed color with the sun, and an incredible smile that transformed his face into super-hot no matter what you might think of it in repose. His smile was broad and happy, not feminine at all, but possessing all the qualities held by the best of the 1940s movie heroes.

His voice, too — whoa. That was another thing I had a distinct weakness for. Husky, low, soft-spoken. He was persuasive just by virtue of his tone, though God knew he had learned to cultivate it. He made himself a genius salesman without sounding like one.

He was an expert manipulator, as so many fucked-up psychologists and psychiatrists were. At least as far as I could tell, and I'd met a lot of them ... as well as their often-unfortunate spouses. At any rate, he had my number anytime he needed it. We'd have disagreements that started with me on fire and ended with me apologizing. Often I couldn't even remember later what the argument had been about, although the feeling of anger tended to linger, a rudderless boat without an anchor or a shore.

I glanced at the familiar ceiling of our bedroom. A few glow-in-the-dark adhesive stars still strained to beam against the dark ceiling but all but failed with the passage of time and, I guess, the absence of faith. They were just something...