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After a year or so, Cobb started thinking of dark hair. The swish and wealth of it. On wide southern avenues brunettes jerked his head around. At first not Meg. It was just damn near every brunette. It was forty-five-year-old brunettes at Lanc?me counters. It was twenty-seven-year-old cashiers and the dark-skinned Jewish brunettes who perform sure-footed blowjobs on porn sites. Then it was Meg. Then it was the cashier. Then it was both, in his head in the bathroom in the bedroom on a reel billowing like horse manes.

One night at a wine bar, the sisters looked beautiful and disparate. Everybody drank too much and they all went back to Cobb and Blondie's home, and Blondie made it to the bathroom and passed out there, her blond tresses cascading murderously across the tile like southern blood.

As a nation we are obsessed with the moment it happens. When alcohol is buy csgo skins involved, the moment is a glance of breath. It's the smell of cologne and lacrosse sweat. Meg is on the bed. Her brother-in-law walks halfway across the room and Meg has this look on her face like pre-sin. A white bra strap is showing.

He kneeled on the bed and she kneeled up to meet him and they kissed and skipped foreplay, pants off, dress hiked up, and they had drilling sex, fast and half-smiling, half look of holy fuck, my sister your wife. The depraved lunacy of gotta have it anyway.

This story doesn't shock me. I see the logic. More than I believe in the sanctity of union and promise, I believe that everybody cheats. If you have not cheated yet, it's because you are still too grateful to be secure, or you have not yet had the opportunity, or the right color of red hair has not come along and sat down at the bar on a Tuesday when the jukebox was playing Leonard Cohen and your manhattan tasted like the future.