By 1978, our marriage was so open it no longer included me. We broke up in November. Was my reason Ed’s reason? Neither of us wanted to relinquish the bedroom, so Ed made a pallet on the floor. There we were, sharing our unconscious hours yet too angry to speak or touch, except once—as if we had just made the jolting discovery of the other’s body. Ed whispered in a rush of caresses, “It’s a body to fuck and suck.” Then we lay together, drifting into bitter thoughts, the connection becoming arbitrary that overwhelmed us minutes before. I moved out for a few months to give Ed time to organize his departure and stayed with my friend Denise. It rained constantly. Somehow rain leaked down the electrical cord, over the bare light bulb, and trickled to the floor of my cold horrid room.