“Nothing.”

And we lay down, on our wedding night, and turned our backs to each other, and I stared at the wall with my shameful suspicion still not fully quieted, because I had seen a silhouette and my mind had supplied the rest, and I had not yet learned that a mind which leaps to suspect the woman beside it has been trained to do so by someone, somewhere, long before.

I did not sleep much.

I told myself I was being paranoid, and I was — but not, as it would turn out, about the affair.

Only about who was having it.

What I could not see that night, and would only understand much later, is that my suspicion of Mariana was not really about Mariana at all.