From the corner of my eye, from the softness of my pillow, I see him sleeping; his mouth is ajar, silently breathing in dust motes that float erratically above the quilt. He looks peaceful, beautiful, somewhat angelic, in slumber; a wonderful contrast to the lovable beast that inhabits him, in consciousness. He opens his eyes; did he sense me looking at him, I wonder? Does he know I look at him this way every morning, and think such things? He smiles at me; the creases of middle-age have formed in the corners of his lips, the lips I would kiss, every morning, adoringly and without hesitance. We pillow-talk, reflect on our past, until the dust motes settle. We speak of our families, our friends and of our two beautiful teenage children – but our conversation always fails to lead to the one, difficult-to-ask, forever-grinding, question, Why have you been cheating on me?