I was working in the library, checking in a book about Lou Gehrig, thinking about how I would never read a book about Lou Gehrig, when a man leaned over, nearly touching my ear with his lips. 

“Did you know that a pig's orgasm lasts for 30 minutes?”  I jerked up quickly, almost hitting my head on the man’s chin.  He was about 40 years old, dark green eyes and stood looking at me with a half-cocked grin. 

“Oh yeah?  And how long does a horse’s last?”  I asked the man.  He laughs.  I know I should be offended, I should leave or call somebody but he is funny and peculiarly brave and I can’t walk away from that.   

“I’m Joe.  You’re new here?” 

“Yes, I’m new.”  He studies me for a second and then just walks away.  I stand there, watching him walk away, not sure what all that was about and why it ended so quickly.  He is tall, but not too tall, with the soft slouch of a bookish man.  He reminds me of a brooding tree, really.  I would have forgotten him except later that day I receive an email from him.  “Meet me upstairs, row three, by the Middle English poetry.”  I quickly get up, smooth my skirt down and head up the stairs.  He is there, pretending to look at books.  He picks up a volume of poetry and begins reading.  He has seen me, I can tell, and a grin spreads over his face.  Unsure of what do, I decide to walk over to him and as I get closer he puts the book down and faces me directly. 

“I know where there’s an unoccupied room.  Are you interested?” 

“Of course I am.”  We head to a small room in the back, the repository room.  He has keys and unbolts the door.  I see a ring on his hand, but I had already known he was married.  People like us, always searching for lovers that we never want to commit to, can spot each other easily.  As easily as we can spot the people that would wantonly burn adulterers at the stake.  He grabs my hand and leads me to the back, down the long bookshelves where old alumni newspapers and photos of people wearing graduation gowns and caps were collecting dust.  We stop at the end of the row and Joe puts his hand up my skirt. 

I saw him regularly after that, about three times a week.  It was often the same routine, but in various rooms and buildings.  The book binding room is small concrete room with a hard, egg white table.  We were in there one night, both of us with our clothes off and we hear the doorknob jiggle and then keys being pulled out.  We both scrambled to put out clothes back on and by the time the woman figured out the lock and opened the door, we were sitting at the table with a couple of books in our laps.  “What are you two doing in here?” She asks and Joe looks at her as though she were stupid.  “We are binding books is what we’re doing.”  She briskly turned around and left and we both laughed until tears ran down our face. 

I wondered if I loved Joe, but really, I knew I didn’t.  He was good to pass the time with and good for ebbing my furious, daily, anxiety, but most of my feelings were confined to the rooms we spent our time in.  I knew people were looking at us and that the old women in the break room had lengthy discussions regarding our nefarious looks at each other.  Everyone knew but nobody knew for sure until the Christmas dinner.  It was a company potluck and Joe and I sat together with a few higher ups right across from us.  I had a big spoonful of pasta salad on my spoon and Joe took his fork and knocked the pasta off my spoon.  He laughed at this, but I was stunned and irritated.  Our boss looks over at us and while Joe continues laughing and spoons pudding into his mouth.   She watches me carefully and her lip twitches. 

Joe quickly ate his dinner and just before leaving pinches my thigh under the table. I know this means that he wants me to come to his office in a few minutes.  After he leaves, I eat dainty spoonfuls of company contrived vanilla pudding and tried to make small talk with the other co-workers around me but no one, at this point, was much interested in making conversation with me.  I am used to this, actually.  Always the office tramp, the spurned outcast.  Forever the lover, never the loved. 

I leave as soon as I figure no one is thinking about us anymore.  I go to Joe’s office, knock on his door, and he opens it wearing no pants.  I walk in and quickly shut the door.  “Joe what are you doing?  There are people everywhere?”  But he takes me in his arms and it isn’t long before we are laying on his grainy, threadbare and abrasive office couch that I despise. 

We are naked again and much less alert that usual.  We weren’t ready for any interruptions when it happened.  We hear someone jiggle the doorknob and then hear them go for their keys.  We scramble to get our clothes on but whoever it is, is too fast.  I am shirtless and dart under Joe’s desk.  Joe stands up, his pants were on, but not his shirt, and faces the two old ladies standing open-mouthed at his door.  “What do you two think you’re doing charging into my office like that?” The two old ladies mumble something about a scheduled delivery and they are very sorry and they both back out, one pulling the door closed behind her.   

“Come on out.”  He says to me.  I come out from under the desk, knowing that one of the old ladies at the door was the boss’s executive secretary.  We are done for.    

“She will know it’s me!”  I say.  I am exceeding anxious.   

“No, she’ll think it’s my wife.  She has dark hair like you.”  I later learned that his wife was more than 100 lbs heavier than me with short hair, but I let myself believe him.  I had no other choice. 

Surprisingly, the most that came out of being discovered were office rumors copious contemptuous glares and deliberate whispers.  I stopped seeing Joe for a couple of weeks and we avoided each other in the hallways.  He would walk past me and all I would get from him were looks from the corner of his eyes.  I also started seeing a new girl come around.  She wore tight red dresses, heels and loose buns.  She would go to Joe’s office, shut the door and bumble around about some important budget issues they needed to discuss to anyone passing by.   She often tried to make eye contact with me, but I made sure I was always sifting through papers when I passed her. 

Finn is the computer technician for the library and mostly works in the basement of the building but comes up a few times a day to check for problems and update software.  He is tall, auburn hair and handsome.  The girls at the desk all gawk at him.  I overhear one say “He’s dreamy.”  Yes, dreamy. 

He is much younger than I am and lacks the charm of the older, practiced man.  When we talk it is awkward and abbreviated.  He searches for clever things to say and always falls short.   I watch him a lot, watch him carry computer monitors up to the third floor and boxes of books to the cataloging room.  His untucked shirt billows when he walks and as a nervous habit, he tucks his hair behind his ears when he thinks someone is looking at him.  Usually he never looks around, keeps his eyes straight ahead.  I imagine it’s because people are always looking at him and to do anything but look ahead might risk uncomfortable eye contact.  We talk very little but suddenly I find myself searching for his scent when we are in the same room together or he passes me in the hallway.   

My brother's baby died yesterday.  Kim was supposed to have him on the 20th but she went in yesterday and they couldn't find a heartbeat.  Today she is going to give birth to him, his name was Owen Christian Loy, and they will have to have a funeral because he was full term.  And yes, they were naming him after my brother Chris who died exactly six months ago today.  So much loss lately.  As though life is inconsequential.  I think what breaks me down the most is just that my brother loved Chris so much as was devastated by his loss and now this...he loses his son.  My brother Chris lost Jason at five months!  My brothers!    

I am boring him.  I can see that from his expression.  He’s sitting by me in the car nearly asleep.  I feel queasy.  “I’m boring you, aren’t I?” 

     “What?  Oh no, of course not.”  He says and puts his hand over his mouth to stifle a yawn.  It kills me.  I know if I wasn’t pregnant he would leave.   He’s always watching other women, longing for anything other than the melancholy tears of his wife and my mourning, overwhelmed stare. 

We are in the car heading towards the store parking lot where his truck is parked.  My husband is at home watching my two other children.  There is fog on the road and I have to squint to the see the lines. 

“Are you doing anything this weekend?  Other than dreaming about being with me?”  I laugh.  He doesn’t think it’s funny but looks over at me and offers a tight smile. 

“Honestly, I am going to the canyons this weekend with Richard to bike.  I need to get away for a while.”  I feel a surge of jealousy rise from the pit of my gut.  He just got away with me but then, maybe it’s me he wants away from.

“I will be thinking of you the whole time.  And this little guy...”  He says and reaches over to pat my belly. 

“Oh and what if he’s a girl?” 

“He won’t be.” 

“I don’t know.  I kinda feel as though I am cooking up a girl.”  I laugh but he looks more somber than ever. 

“Don’t even joke around like that.”

“Well, I am not doing much this weekend myself.  I am going to finish reading that novel I was telling you about, the one with the lady who hid a man under her four skirts, remember that?  And then just spend time with the kids and the husband.  I don’t get to go on big hiking trips like you.”  I look over at him and his eyes are half closed again.  He didn’t hear me.  I push on the gas pedal a little harder and grip the steering wheel until my knuckles blanch.  He’s waiting for us to talk about her, always his wife, and how it would hurt him to lose his kids and that this relationship is the best thing that’s ever happened to him but he would never forgive himself…never, never forgive himself.  He checks his watch to kill the conversation. 

“Geez, look at the time!”  He says brightening up.  It’s only four but I know what he will say next.  “I have to get home early tonight because it’s my turn to cook dinner.”

“That’s alright.  I have to cook dinner too and besides, I am sure the house needs a few hours of recovery work.”  The parking lot is straight ahead and I am relieved this ride is almost over.  “Well, today was fun though, wasn’t it?”

“Oh yeah!  It was great.  Really.” 

“Have fun making dinner.  Try not to burn your house down.”  He chuckles and I give him a small smile.  “What are you going to make?

“Chicken and rice.  The boys never get tired of my chicken.” 

I pull into the parking lot next to his bright red truck that stands out like neon in a world of grey.  There are people all around getting into their cars, pulling out strollers, buckling babies into car seats, unloading groceries.  I do a quick scan to make sure I don’t know anyone.  I am afraid they will recognize me or even him.  We both feel this.  We always have.  He leans over and kisses me.  I feel his arms wrap around my waist and I cringe because I know I have flesh pouring out over the top of my jeans because of the baby.  He will feel the imperfections, the loose skin.  I push his arms away and laugh. 

“No more.  I have had enough for one day.”  I cannot squelch the bitterness gripping me.  He wouldn’t like me if I were fat.  He would leave for someone better. 

“Bah.  You’re just hormonal.”  He says and smiles his lady killer smile. 

“Yeah.  Hormones.  Whatever.”  I roll my eyes.  He gets out of the car and walks over to my window.  I roll it down and wait for him to lean in.  He kisses me. 

“Bye sweety.  I love you.”

“I love you too.”  I watch him climb into his truck.  He rolls down his window and looks over at me.  The wave, the smile, the wink.  He starts his car and drives off, leaving his arm dangling out the window.  In a moment he will turn up the radio and take his shirt off.   

I get home and the kids rush at me.  They’re hungry.  My husband sits on the couch watching his endless episodes of the Dukes of Hazard.  He does this every day, three hours of television, dinner and sleep. Always the same mind numbing routine.  The kids have jelly smeared all over their faces and I can tell they’ve broken into the refrigerator and eaten straight from the jelly jar.  “Hey!  Did you feed the kids anything?  They’re starving.” 

“Nah.  They found food.”  He chuckles and this makes me angry.  I go into the kitchen and go through the cupboards.  There’s no food.  Nothing but crackers and boxes of macaroni and cheese.  I pull out the macaroni and cheese and start to boil the water.  I can’t help but wonder why I am here.  No part of me wants to be this woman with this man in this house and yet, I cannot leave my children.  As I think this the baby lurches in my womb and I remember that I am more trapped in this than I ever have been.  My husband doesn’t know that this child might not be his.  The water boils and I add the milk and butter to the macaroni and feel a wave of nausea.

 These children, my children, to feed and take care of and I can’t.  Not alone.  I am sick.  I dish them out the food and go lay on my bed.  Think of Jon. 

I think of his arms.  And his brown, hard chest.  I never figured we would know each other more than just as hallway friends.  But he started coming around a lot, come to my desk and lean in, flash me his perfect white teeth and perfect tanned biceps.  We went to lunch one day and then to a low lit garage in his car after that.  We saw each other every afternoon and maybe I felt like I was falling in love with him.  Then one night I was at his house because his wife was on a business trip.  There was a huge family photo in the front room, just over the fireplace, and his wife sits in the front with her arm draped over Jon’s knee.  She has smooth, dark hair, is plump and cheeky.  Their children stand stoically behind them.  Happy family.  His wife has Native American art pinned to the walls and a grey and white blanket with the head of a wolf draped over the couch.  I pretend like I am studying it, pretend like I respect this kind of art and the person who would buy it.  I pick up a small, blue and white jar and find little butterscotch candies in it.  I fondle the Native American porcelain.  I can’t help but wonder why she is so attracted to this kind of hokey, trifling junk. 

Jon grabs me and pulls me down on the outdated, shag carpet beneath the family picture and I keep looking up, thinking about his family and how I will never be more to him than this moment on his carpet.  She can take a photo and hang it over the fireplace. I am nothing more than the wet stain I will leave when we’re done.   

And then she walks in, drops her bags on the floor before she sees us.  Her eyes grow wide with horror when she sees me, I quickly get up and put my shirt on.  Jon rushes to her, tries to lead her out but it’s too late.  She tries to grab my arm but she’s slow and I laugh because I don’t know what else to do but I cannot believe I am laughing.  Jon yells at me to go out the other way, through the kitchen door and I dash out but even then, I can feel her presence following me and I wonder if she has a gun in the house.  With anger like that.  When I get home I make sure I lock all the doors, the windows, turn off all the lights and my husband only sits there watching the television.  He doesn’t say a word and I feel like it’s because he already knows everything.  She’s called or Jon called and told him everything.  I tiptoe around him.  I make him a cheese sandwich and sit on his lap.  I run my fingers through his hair and I have never loved him more than at that moment.  His eyes don’t move from the screen and I laugh with him as Boss Hog once again concocts a scheme to catch Luke and Bo.  For hours.  It seems like hours. 

It’s been a week since then.  She still hasn’t called to tell my husband, not yet.  The moments I have shared with Jon, we don’t discuss it.  We act like it never happened but I wait for the moment.  Her moment.  I put my hand to feel the baby’s foot, pushing out like a perfect embryonic sculpture in my stomach.  These quiet moments are all I have.  I start to doze off until I hear the phone ring.  I jump up, thinking that it could be her, and that if I can only get to the phone before my husband, my secret is safe.  I have been doing this for a week now, unable to ever really rest.  But I am not quick enough and my husband answers.  I try to listen to what he says, but the door is shut and all I can do is strain forward, hearing only small words and mumbles.  I go over what my mother told me to say if ever my husband confronts me.  She told me that if he ever finds out, tell him that it was a one night stand.  Tell him that I never saw the other man more than one time.  Tell him that I have never loved any other man and everything will be okay.  My heart, though, races and a feel myself breathing too quickly. 

My husband opens the door and looks at me.  His eyes are wild and unfocused.  He sits down beside me and holds his hands in his lap.  I ask him, “Is everything okay?”  and for an agonizing few seconds he doesn’t answer.  And then he cries.  Softly, sweetly. 

“My mother is sick.  They said cancer of the stomach.”  He says this through sobs.  I can’t answer him, can’t say anything but I grab his hand and hold it tightly.  “She has six weeks, she said.  That’s all.”  I start to cry with him and we sit there for a while.  Only I’m not crying about his mother and all I can think about is that I am saved.  If only for another day, I am saved.