I curled up and leaned against the headboard of the full bed. My eyes were practically glued to the door. I could almost smell him—his skin, his swe...t—and the memory of his mouth on mine and his hands as they undressed me was enough to make me fidget with impatience. But he wasn’t coming. I looked at the clock. Only 10 minutes had passed. He was probably going to wait a while until he was sure my parents were asleep, I told myself. He had more self control than I did, apparently. The best. It was then that the absurdity of the situation hit me. What the hell was I doing? Why was I, a grown man, hiding behind a concrete pillar in a poorly lit multi story car park waiting for my wife to appear with another man? Surely I should be stepping out to reclaim her as mine; to save her from pudgy man. I should be beating the shit out of him for what he made her do in the cinema. I should be berating my wife for allowing herself to be groped and used and abused and perhaps I should even be. More

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