It was either in the yard, the kitchen, or the car, but Linda asked me a question so disturbing that where it was asked was unimportant. She asked, “If you could keep something like this from me, what other secrets are you hiding?”

Let’s say it was in the car, because there is no escaping a conversation made in an automobile. “I have no secrets,” I lied.

“No?” She laughed. “You’ve got one the size of a building in our yard.”

There was nothing I could say to that.

“I never asked you about Paris,” she said.

“That was ten years ago.”

“What was ten years ago?”

“Paris,” I said. “What are you talking about?”

“Why did you have to be there?”

“That was ten years ago.”

She looked out the passenger side window. She hardly spoke to me after that. There were no accusations, there was no screaming, there was nothing, not even sighing. She yawned. The kids noticed the distance between their mother and me, but didn’t address it. How could they have? I thought that my, in my mind, ancient, infidelity had finally come home to roost. Metaphors are like oil paints: when you work wet they can get away from you.

I toyed with the idea of