the word affair is misleading. it gives rise to some outing in the park–where the women dressed in white walk back and forth on the stone path, and pretend to twirl their parasols like they are virgins who don’t know what to do with their hands, which is also misleading, many virgins already know what to do with their hands. on these outings, there are always too many women and not enough men. on these outings, one woman always pretends to drop her glove but keeps her head up to catch who is watching. this is the one who will marry. this is the wife. the one who is having the affair isn’t holding up a parasol or looking at the man at all. instead she is pushing daisies between her teeth to keep from speaking. she is used to hearing i miss you from him so often she must practice not being here. she comes not during the splendors of may, but when autumn mimics the dread clumps of her heart in the accumulation of dead birds, pine needles, and goodbyes. all this effort to prove an affair is about as exciting as a linen closet. both women stand inside the closet folding their wants inside a cloth. the women get out, i hope. the man dons new women everyday like the passing of clouds.