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The man at the wheel who I callmy husband is a stranger like every person is a stranger. The closer youget the more space there is between the atoms that hold us together. Hecould have snuck down here alone to be disappointed or, if it turned outthe way he imagined, to fuck Cassie's lights out. He's telling me thetruth because he has no idea that I'm hurt by what he's telling me. I'mimagining him scanning Craigslist ads looking for other girls,exchanging emails, pictures, fantasies. If I let on how hurt I am, he'llknow enough next time not to include me in his fantasies. This hurt Ifeel is the price you pay for honesty, for being part of the solution toyour partner's inevitable restlessness. And if I'm honest, don't I feelsomething of the same thing he feels? Don't we all? We can hurtletowards each other and pass right through there is so much empty spacebetween the particles that make us who and what we are. There is so muchemptiness inside us that we can pass right through each. I could see she was wary about meeting the girls, but I told her she would like them, as both were into horses. The girls, if they were not out mixing with the guests, used to sit around in the kitchen and play cards. I had noticed when we arrived that Marcia and Liz were out there. I got on well with both of them, especially Marcia, who had been trying to get me to take her out. She was 23, very attractive with a little dark blood; the talk was that her mother was West Indian. Liz was one of the married women and lived out in the country on a ten acre block where she had some horses. She was also attractive, but probably over 30. They talked as I mixed up another vodka and bourbon for myself. I could see Joy had eased up in their company and talking quite freely. She was probably quite surprised at the girls that worked here; Liz in particular, was quite posh and well educated. I always wondered why she worked here as she obviously had money. (Found out later, that she was having an.
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