I dreamt of roaches in my bed. I quietly lifted my blanket, coupled with my sheet, after feeling bumps against my skin. As I saw the brown, black, and red inch-long bugs viciously scrambling, I could feel the muscles attached to my eyes tighten, inciting a domino effect infecting all of my muscles, tendons, and joints as if a bolt of electricity had shot through my frozen body. I knew I was asleep and inducing this experience upon myself, yet I could not stop it by waking or forcing more pleasant thoughts. I couldn’t move but for my eyes which shifted neurotically fearing the worst. A roach would make its way to my face and crawl carelessly across my cheeks and over the bridge of my nose, insisting my eyes to cross helplessly.

Finally, I must have fallen asleep because the next moment I was awakened by the shrill sound of a cat that now made me think of Shirley. She hadn’t spent the night because there had been tension between us at dinner and after. I took a long shower and didn’t want to be touched. I felt clean and fresh. Not that her hands would change that, but what would run through my mind-- the guilt-- is what I was afraid of.

Now clearly I was seeing the truth of my deception. It spoiled things like a torrid day will spoil a clean glass of cool water. I was tired and knew the heavy thoughts would break me. Perhaps Shirley didn’t know about my lack of sincerity, but she could tell that night I needed space and like the astute and gracious person she is, left me to my nightmare.

It was still dark, Greg hadn’t made it home, and I was alone. I lay in bed with the remote and clicked on the television. A prematurely gray woman sat properly behind a news desk and looked straight ahead with her eyes averting to left of the screen where I imagined the teleprompter to be. Again, I thought of conversations with Shirley where my eyes looked away as if searching for lines that would not give me away. I wondered if this anchorwoman, Kyle Kanton (her name now glowed at the bottom of the screen), was any better at lying than I. Although I hadn’t slept with Betsy for awhile, I felt as if I was having a full fledged affair and suddenly I knew why I felt that way: because I wanted it. As much as I respected Shirley and desired to be there for her the rest of my life, I could not rid my unruly desire and passion for Betsy. I dialed Betsy’s number.

“Hello,” she said, not hiding her sleeplessness.

“Betsy?” I said, my emotions rising uncontrollably to the surface.

“Fran?”

“Yes.”

“Are you crying?”

“I know I shouldn’t be calling you, since I can’t...I can’t...I think about you Betsy but I...I...I want to be with you.”

“You want me to come over?”

I could tell she liked this call.

“No, Betsy, I’m just sad because I love Shirley. I don’t want to cheat on her. I have to talk to her, I know, but I wanted to hear your voice. I’m sorry to wake you.”

“Fran, you can call me anytime you like. I feel the same way about you.”

“What about Mike?”

“What do you think?”

“I think Mike’s a nice guy but you shouldn’t...” I stopped myself, knowing I sounded like a hypocrite.

“Fran, Mike is a nice guy but he’s not a fool. I actually think he’s seeing someone else.”

“Really?”

“And you know what else I think? I think it’s a guy.”

“Mike!? Jesus. I don’t get how someone can switch back and forth. I just don’t get it.”

“And you better not. I’d hate to see you with a man. I’d hate to see you with anybody. Please, can I come over?”

“No. Good-bye. I’ll call you.” I hung up before she could get another word in and I realized that I felt relieved, not because I told Betsy how I felt but because my guilt was now shadowed by the excitement of the call. When that wore off, I knew I would feel the weight of guilt again but for now I thought of the loveliness of Betsy’s body.