He hasn't slept well lately.  He likes to blame it on me but I don't see how that could be true.  I don't snore, I don't kick, I barely make even the slightest disturbance, and he's never complained before.  Now, when I wake up in the middle of the night, still caught in the last wisps of a dream I can't remember, I reach for him.  But he's never there.

     Robert and I married two years ago, to the surprise of nearly everyone we know, and the disapproval of a few chosen family members.  My mother has never approved of the seventeen-year age difference and our short engagement.  She doesn't trust that our feelings are mutual and true.  Robert calls her a nosy busybody in that cautious way of his, always worried about wounding my feelings.  But there's too much honesty in everything he says for me to get angry.  Like when he kisses me at night and whispers in my ear.

     "You seem so distant."

     Under most circumstances I would think this a cliché line, simply said to instill a sense of guilt.  But I understand the truth in the statement, even more so than Robert does.  He doesn't know that for weeks I've been imagining myself with someone else every time he's in the room.  He doesn't know I have thought of this person since the very origins of our relationship.  But Henry had only ever been nostalgia until two weeks ago.

     Seeing Henry again reminded me of a time when my youth was an excuse for poor judgment, not an obstacle I was meant to overcome.  His smile took me back to hazy afternoons in his tiny dorm room, snacking on Ramen noodles and spending hours in bed, giggling when his roommate pounded on the locked door.  He brought me back to a time when my present would have seemed like a farce, the last gasp of a desperate woman.  Everything I've learned and conquered in the five years since we said good-bye disappeared in an instant when I saw him at the coffeehouse, and I was my old self again.

     All I've done with Henry is talk, but Robert feels the new distance and now he cannot even sleep next to me.  I don't want to be this person, this wife, but it's as if I've been pushed into a position I have no authority to escape.  

     I call Henry, tell him I want to see him, and he invites me to his hotel room.  He's only in town for another week, before he returns home from his business trip.  This could be my last opportunity to see him, and I take it.

     "You look lovely," he says when he opens the door.  He smells wonderful, exactly the same as I imagine he always has, and it's intoxicating.  He has a bottle of wine and though I've never been a drinker, I consume enough to blur my conscience, screaming at me to leave.  I want to be here.

     Henry's grown-up but he still has the spark of youth, the feeling I thought I lost when I met Robert.

     "What kind of man is Robert?"

     "Serious," I answer.  "He's very sensible."

     Henry snorts and I feel guilty when I smile.  

     "He's also very sweet.  He cares about me a lot, and he's very loving.  Robert's a good man."

     "An old man.  He's practically old enough to be your father."

     "Almost," I say, smiling again.  At this point I'm groggy from the wine and I just want to lie down.  So I do, resting across the bed with my eyes shut.  I want to blame the alcohol when I feel Henry tentatively touch my cheek, my arms, my neck, every exposed inch of skin, and I let him.  But then he's hovering over me and we're kissing, and I know it's wrong, yet I kiss him back with a passion I haven't felt in over a year, and I know it's everything I want.  I grab his hair and pull his face as close as I can, while his hands explore my more adventurous skin.  And I give in.

     When I leave the hotel, I know I'll probably never see Henry again.  I've let myself go back to what I've missed and I've had my fill.  I want to go home.

     It doesn't take long for Robert to suspect something.  "You seem different," he tells me, always diplomatically honest.  I feel different.  I am more content with my life, but an achy hollow has settled down in the pit of my stomach, one that I'm sure will never go away.  Something inside me has changed.  But our life together stays the same.  Robert still disappears at night.  He still says I'm distant, and I want to tell him he is too.

     I wake one night, my consciousness dragging away from whatever I dreamed.  I turn towards Robert's side of the bed out of habit, and almost jump in surprise when I see him lying there, staring back at me.

     "You said it again."

     "Said what?"

     "You wanted to know why I leave every night.  It's because you've been talking in your sleep.  You're dreaming, and making moaning sounds and moving around and you always whisper a name."

     "What name?" I ask, knowing the answer as I suddenly remember what I've been dreaming.

     "It's always Henry."

     I don't answer, and Robert sits up to turn on the bedside lamp before turning back to me.

     "Are you having an affair?"

     "No," I say as sternly as possible.  "I'm not.  I would never do that to you."

     "Then who's Henry?"

     "I don't know, Robert.  I don't remember my dreams.  It doesn't mean anything.  I love you, Robert, and that's what matters."

     As I talk he studies my face, and when I finish he sits silently in contemplation.  And then, to my surprise, he leans forward and kisses me.                  

     The kiss is different, more like how it was the first time I spent the night at his apartment, back when we were practically strangers.  It's deeper, frantic, and entirely sensual, and for the first time in over a year I'm there with him too.  I twine my fingers in his hair and lay down, feeling his warmth above me.  His hand slowly moves down my neck, stroking, and then he cups my breast.  And in an instant I'm living it again.  The cool fabric of the comforter against my bare shoulders, soft hair in my hands, the long dormant heat deep within me, the sighs breaking through between kisses.

     "Henry."

     It's naught but a whisper, so quiet that it's barely audible, even to me.  Yet it rings through like a curse, and the moment is broken so thoroughly that I'm left shivering as Robert moves away.

     "Robert, I'm sorry.  It just slipped out, it didn't mean anything."

     He sits silently at the edge of the bed.  He simply stares at the wall for a moment, before turning his head to look back at me.  As the lamplight illuminates his face, I'm dismayed to see the shiny track of tears on his cheek.

     "Why did you lie to me?"

     "Robert, I didn't—"

     "Why did you lie?"

     I try to swallow down my own impending tears.  "I didn't want to.  I really do love you, Robert.  Henry isn't anything; he's just a part of my past that I wanted to go back to, just for a moment.  That's all it was, that's why I didn't tell you.  But he's gone now."   

     "Why did you say his name?"

     I don't answer.  It is nothing he wants to hear.

     Robert pauses for a moment, then when he seems to decide that I'm not going to speak, he stands up.  I watch him walk to the door, where he turns once more before leaving the room.

     "You really are a child, aren't you?"

     And for the first time in our relationship, I'd have to agree.