Why did I do it? Why would I talk about it? Write about it? Does it bother me? Was it a mistake? Mine? Hers? Would it have ended up differently? What if I hadn’t gone fishing? If the weather hadn’t been bad? If I hadn’t been so mad? If she’d opened the door and let me in, soaked and exhausted as I was? What if, by some chance, I hadn’t had the spare key? Something even worse perhaps? Or something better? What would ’better’ have looked like, knowing that our being together had been losing all sense? Would she have taken pity on my misery and embarked on saving our marriage for the millionth time? Would we have separated after that, would we have finally understood that we were hurtling toward disaster? What if she’d been awake when I lay down and clung to her from behind? What if she’d woken up while I was taking off her panties? What if she had mumbled her usual “don’t” and pulled them back up from her knees? What if I had known that she was really sleeping when I put it in her, that her moans were for real? What if I hadn’t been convinced that she could hardly wait for me to come and get it over with? What if she had come?