I noticed it first last week and then yesterday, Agnes noticed it and she asked me about it.
"Norman," she asked in her clipped, tense voice, "what is this sore down here? Do you know anything about this?"
How would I respond to that? Of course I knew exactly what it was, but I didn't want to have that discussion with my wife. I'd already confessed my affair to her, and though I'd lied about the woman's identity to protect Cristina from Agnes's wrath (after all, they'd been best friends for nearly ten years), I hadn't told Agnes that I saw a masseuse on Friday afternoons once a month and that I'd doubtless picked up the infection from her. And passed it on to Agnes, obviously. Fridays might've been for the masseuse once a month, but every Saturday ... no exceptions, unless one of us was ill ... every Saturday was for us.
"I don't know, sweetheart. Do you feel a cold coming on?"
"Liar! I wasn't born yesterday. My father was a doctor, you know, and I'm smart enough to know exactly what this is. This is because of your affair with Mary Holmes! You got this from her and you brought it home to me!"
"It's possible, Agnes, it's possible. We should both see the doctor, shouldn't we?"
Agnes didn't know this, but I'd already gone to the doctor three weeks ago and he'd confirmed the diagnosis and prescribed some medications which I'd concealed at home.
"You'd better believe it, Norman. And if this is anything really serious, there's going to be hell to pay."
"I should also contact Mary Holmes."
"You'll do nothing of the kind. I hope she rots."
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