Gloria 47

I am Gloria, 47. I plan trips for other people from a small office with a wall of maps, and I am careful about what I say yes to in my own life. My husband is Arthur, 49. He is a pianist who practices in the mornings and rubs his own wrists in the evenings. Diane is 44, a friend from the old neighborhood who became our lover after a long honest talk, not after a muddle. The three of us agreed before any night like this one. We agreed in the office after close, sober, with the door locked and no client anywhere near it. Any one of us can stop. I like romance that includes oil on tired shoulders and the question, asked out loud, of whether the touch should become sex. Arthur asks. Diane asks. I answer. That is the whole ethic, and it is enough.