This weekend, I'm not the dependable husband or the patient father. I'm just a body, a set of hands, a mouth that's going to learn every inch of my neighbors skin. We won't leave the hotel. We'll order pizza and let the boxes get cold on the floor while we explore each other on the rug, the table, against every window. She'll call me daddy and I'll call her my good girl, and we'll live out the filthiest scenarios my wife would faint at the mere thought of. On Sunday morning, I'll shower, washing her scent from my skin, and drive home with a fish I bought at a random grocery store, a story already rehearsed. And when I walk through my front door and my wife hugs me, smelling like laundry detergent and our life together, I'll kiss her and pretend my heart isn't still beating in that hotel two hundred miles away.