Jenna B. Morgan
Gloria lies on her back, rigid on the mattress like a bug skewered in a display case.
Jim sleeps sprawled, with his back to her. She’s waiting for his breathing to even out into the rhythm of deep sleep before she moves. They’ve been married for twelve years; she’ll know the exact moment he slips away and starts to dream.
She slides from between the sheets and moves to the door. She creeps down the upstairs hallway, past the children’s bedrooms, careful and silent.
Downstairs in the laundry room she sheds her cotton nightgown and shimmies a tight, dry swimsuit up over her hips.
They both have their secrets after dark. Jim lies in their bed dreaming of someone else. Gloria swims…
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