Free Wife Living Dangerously by Sara Susannah Katz

him.
    “Michael never told me,” he says, moving so close I can see his bridgework, “that his lovely wife is a gourmet cook.” Is my
     husband’s boss flirting with me? Or does he need to be near because of a hearing impairment?
    “Oh, thanks,” I say, “but all I did was follow the recipes. Right out of the magazine. I’m so glad you enjoyed it.”
    “I can’t wait for the pie,” he growls and suddenly I feel Rick Wellman’s hand graze my buttocks. Now I’m quite certain that
     he is flirting with me.
    I tell Michael about this incident after Rick and Lanie have left, as we’re loading the dishwasher together. Michael is doubtful.
    “I just don’t see it happening, hon.” He shoves the dishes haphazardly into the racks and I’m right behind him, repositioning.
     He’s rushing because his band is playing at The Rock Barn again tonight and he’s anxious to rehearse before the gig. “I really
     don’t think Rick would come on to you.”
    “Is that because he’s not the kind of man who flirts, or because I’m not the kind of woman a man would want to flirt with?”
     I’m alarmed by the sudden rush of hostility I feel.
    “Both. No. Wait. I didn’t mean that. You’re a beautiful woman. I just—”
    “It’s okay. I know what you meant.” I slide the last plate into the dishwasher and go upstairs. Behind a locked bathroom door,
     I stand before the mirror, studying my face. Michael is probably right. I’m not that kind of woman.
    I don’t make a big deal of my dreams the way some people do. I don’t believe they’re symbolic or prophetic or necessarily
     special in any way. Maybe some people dream important things, emotional insights, cultural archetypes, solutions to profound
     questions, but my own dreams are just the silt runoff of my brain, meaningless fragments, flashes, bits of nonsensical dialogue,
     useless images. I dream of tomato seeds, broken lightbulbs, chicken fat, trowels, tire treads, strangers. I put no stock in
     my dreams. So when I dream of kissing Evan Delaney in the basement of the Bentley Institute, on the rumpled blue silk sheets
     of a bed that just happens to be there, I am, as you can imagine, alarmed. In the dream I am in the archives, standing at
     a file cabinet, my back to the rest of the room. I am looking for something, some kind of legal document, and I am completely
     focused on my task. I don’t hear the door open or the footsteps behind me. Then a strong arm wraps around my waist, and I
     am pulled close and tight against this man, and feel him swelling and hardening. I loll my head back and feel his hot breath
     against my neck, his lips and tongue, and then we are on this bed, this soft, beautiful bed that has materialized amid the
     bookcases and filing cabinets. Now he is over me, kissing me, licking me along my neck, breasts, belly, moving his head between
     my legs. I sense that someone else is in the room and turn my head to find my mother sitting at a big oak desk. She is serving
     lemonade.
    I wake up gasping for air.
    Michael stirs. “Bad dream?” It is four in the morning. He’d stumbled into bed only two hours ago smelling of beer and smoke.
    I am acutely grateful for the fact that my dream hadn’t been projected onto the ceiling above our bed but remains locked in
     my own skull.
    “Yeah. Awful dream.” I am still mad at him for insisting that his boss couldn’t possibly have been flirting with me.
    Michael rolls onto his side and pulls me against him. “Go back to sleep,” he whispers into my hair. “I love you.”

Chapter FOUR
    H usbands in Victorian England were implored to show sexual self-restraint unless the intent was to procreate. Wives were instructed
     never to move during the act of sexual congress.
    I know this because one of our research interns has proposed an exploration of Victorian class-based sexual behavior during
     a time of public prohibitions against sexual expressiveness and the private flourishing of