I was married. My husband was a sweet balding black writer who spent most of his time in the research section of the library. I took off from work one rainy day and went to the library to surprise him. When I got there I found his coat and the micro-cassette recorder he used for interviews. It was still recording but there was no one around. Then I suspected, was convinced... he was having an affair.

I was looking in a book with large print and a watercolor on the top of each right page. Each flip of the pages told another step of the story. I saw the wet umbrella by the door. Two sets of wet footprints on a blue carpet. They both stopped at the same point as if they both took their shoes off then. A bed, like you'd find in a Holiday Inn, still made but with two side by side depressions where they had sat.

I came around a corner and saw them sitting together. Face to face, she was hunched over, tears pouring out of her. His arm stretched out, his hand placed on her back for comfort, but not closeness. This was no affair. This was my wonderful husband helping a friend in need.