My marriage has been in a rocky place since the very beginning. I should have known as soon as I put the ring on her finger that there would be a constant divide between us. I didn’t listen to my friends when they told me we weren’t a good match. Or, that we were a perfect match; one that would burn to a crisp in its own fires.

I’ve been seeing other women. At first it started out as something I would do when I was lonely. I would seek out the company of a woman who could be anything I wanted her to be: at times she was inescapable, wrapped around me, at other times, she would look demurely up at me as my pants were pooled around my ankles.

Above all, she could be faithful. She could, to an extent, emulate what a wife should be. Though she didn’t have the same scent as my wife, nor did her body carry the same kind of languid poses, at least she would willingly open herself up to me. I didn’t know her name, but I did call her something with every thrust: Sarah, Sarah, Sarah.

But then that became too much for me, because I wanted her to be Sarah, or for Sarah to be her.. I don’t know which. I just know that seeing her wasn’t enough anymore. All the passion I had carried for my wife died in her arms, and I went searching for something else, for another Sarah that would take me in.

I found a peep show. It was everything I wanted - nothing personal, no conversation. I could just watch the prostitutes. One girl could look like Sarah, if I imagined the way that her hair curls. Her legs were longer, her chin not as prominent, but it worked. I could imagine Sarah without having to imagine the rest of her: the way that she would turn her lips away from mine, the way that she glared at me from across the room, her backside as she turned away from me. Instead, I could imagine her as she used to be, in those first few blissful months: the way her skin came to life under my touch, and her eyes burned into mine. The way she would call out my name.

But there were other girls that didn’t look like her. That had long black hair, button noses, dark skin, and big hips. There were girls that had no resemblance to her at all, and that was just as good.

I never knew what love was before Sarah. Maybe that was why I rushed into things, and avoided seeing the problems that would arise. Her patience, and my short temper. Her seriousness, and my flippancy. I couldn’t see the problems because I thought we could make it all work.

A girl sits down on the stool in the middle of the room, her robed back to me. She slips the robe off one shoulder, then off the other, and it falls around her waist. She unclasps her bra, and tosses it to the floor. I am watching every movement - the desire pulsating below her skin, the way that her hands are slowly removing every article of clothing. She turns then, and I stare into Sarah’s face. I’m surprised, but she is not; her hands go into her lap, and she closes her eyes.

I’ve spent so long studying my wife in other women that I couldn’t recognize her when she was right in front of me.