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Then she asked me if I published under my own name and I did the unthinkable. I gave her my pen name—my porn name—and I told her my stories were on the web. I even told her where to find themIt was an idiotic thing to do and I'm not sure why I did it. I guess I knew that I was an adjunct instructor at a crummy community college and would never have the money and prestige someone like Emma would respect, but I wanted her to know who I was inside. I wrote porn, but when I wrote it I poured my heart and soul onto the page and I knew it showed. It was powerful stuff. I guess I wanted her to know that about it.And on top of that, I had to admit I was attracted to her. That's not uncommon when you teach college, but this was an unusual attraction. I'm a sexual dominant by nature. That doesn't mean I walk around with a whip and Nazi jackboots on, but I have a special sensitivity for women who are attracted to my type. Emma gave no sign of being submissive, but those labels are misleading. Karma seemed like wishful thinking to me. A moment later I spotted a light turn on in Lisa’s living room. I watched her walk across the room and then I saw Emily’s taller silhouette through the curtains. I saw her pour a glass of wine. A few moments later the two figures came together. The necked standing for a time then lowered themselves until they disappeared from view. The lights stayed on but I saw no more. Somehow the whiskey bottle came out, and I told myself again and again that it was okay, that the woman I love had found someone that it was good, and I could bear it. Again and again, I told myself and hoped to believe it. * * * “Wake up sleepyhead.” I awoke with a start. My head was pounding, and my stomach shaking. The sun was bright in my eyes. I was still in the chair on my porch, still wearing my leigh and Hawaiian shirt. The bottle of V.O. sat empty at my side, the glass, half full. “Where are you?” It was Emily. I stood up just before Emily pulled open the screen.
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More papers, some with jagged edges as if they had been torn from a book, THE book. With the papers were two small pencils, chewed at their ends, and a knife, like the sort used for peeling apples all those years ago. My heart lurched.I sat down on the bedstead, unaware of the harsh bare springs and tried to sort the papers into order, easy, since they were all numbered. It wasn’t a journal, it was a story. I began to read out loud.“Harry discovered my affaire. I feel no shame. If someone finds this when I am gone, then let this be a testament of the truth and love between two human beings.”“My name is Isabella Gurnard. I was born Isabella Louisa Larkin. My father was a mid-ranking diplomat, my mother Italian, the daughter of a similarly ranked Italian diplomat, resident when they met, at Italy’s London embassy. She passed away when I was six years old and my father, a dear, kind man, raised me alone although I had a governess called Miss Percy who was also kind. I never.

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