On our wedding night, I leaned in, and she turned her head just slightly.
Said she was a bit of a germaphobe. Wasn't used to it.
I said okay. No rush.
I tried a few more times after that. Every time, she found an excuse to pull away.
A headache. Too tired. Bad breath, she said, embarrassed.
I believed her.
Told myself to be patient. Once she let her guard down, it would happen.
I waited fifty years.
In fifty years of marriage, the most intimate we ever got was her allowing me to kiss her forehead and her cheeks.
Every time, she'd wipe the spot afterward without thinking.
I always assumed it really was the germaphobe thing.
Now I understood. It was never about that.
She'd just been keeping one clean place for the person who was meant to have it.
"What are you thinking?" I asked.
Peter's voice was vague.
"I don't know. She just woke up, still weak. I didn't have the heart to turn her down."
I took a drag and tasted something bitter in the smoke.
"Kirsten's a good girl. If you didn't have the heart to say no, then give it a shot. See where it goes."
Peter looked at me.
"What about you?"
"Don't you still li—"
I shook my head.
"You've got it wrong. There's someone else I'm interested in."
That was a lie.