“Come,” he says, as his finger paints her scent over my cheek and unnervingly arouses me. “Come see her,” he adds.

I feel the soothing pressure of his fingertips on my skin and relent as my tiny hand is engulfed by his. I let him lead me across the hall, feeling anxious and angry, jealous and stirred. She is there. His lover.

I am nothing.

There, on his easel, is a new goddess. Her water sparkles reflecting distant mountains. Feathered arborvitae burst from pearlescent pots. Amid the calm, magenta pansies take center and burst with life.

I gasp and melt into her world, understanding his love for her. I watch as he caresses her wetness with his fingertip. He has loved her, and she is satiated.

“What do you think?” he asks, knowing he has filled my soul with his mistress.

I cannot think through the passion and take his hand in mine. “She is glorious,” I say. “She inspires poetry.”

He frowns, thoughtful. He is still hungry. He says, “I thought we could go downstairs and have dinner.”

But dinner is impossible while my lover waits for my caress through my keyboard.

We have agreed to our open marriage. My husband, our lovers, and me.