I had moved into a studio apartment in downtown Des Moines. One of us, either me or my husband, Alan, had been having an affair. I am not going to say which one, though, because as our counselor said,
guilt and blame have no place in the healing process.
When the affair blew everything open, Alan and I found ourselves on an apocalyptic, desolate plain. No shelter. No sustenance. No weapons. None of the marriage essentials! The lover, previously understood to be stalwart, a love unwavering, was vaporized in the blast. The original parties were alone: just two people out there, with our past erased but throbbing and our future unseeable.
