I don’t have any memory of it, he said. You want me to confess to something that I might or might not have done, he told his wife. All this talk of infidelity. Cheating throughout the years. Chances are, I didn’t, looked her square in the eye. That is. I don’t think I did.

It happened a long time ago, she said. You used to walk across town to see her. I followed you. You weren’t going out for cigarettes or milk, she sighed.

Where was I off to?

You went to this house over on Taylor Street. Porchlight was always on. I remember. It was an orange color with a tint of red to it. Real seductive like. I can’t blame you. It drew you in; she drew you in. She’d be standing in the doorway in a black slip with a bottle of wine, she said. And, I watched from the car. Sat in the front seat, listening to the radio and smoking. Telling myself I had to quit one day.

You never did.

No. I never did.

Never quit me.

No. No, I held on. Hoping it would stop. And it did. Until you found another one. Hmm. And then another one. Always out at night. All those lies.

I don’t know what you are talking about, he told her. And who are you anyway? Who are you to judge me?

I’m your wife. One minute you remember the next you forget. Been that way forever.

Right. I forget things. How long have we been married?

Sixty years.

I see. Why didn’t you leave me? If I did all this cheating.

‘Cause I love you.

I don’t know you.

That’s OK. Think of me as a friend who visits you. Maybe you’ll forget tomorrow. But I won’t.

The old man closed his eyes and fell asleep. She kissed his forehead and left.