Married men were prompt. They arrived at noon, in the morning, or at happy hour dressed in white sneakers with Velcro straps. Or in loafers with tassels. Their belts were cinched tight, as if they were trying to teach their bodies a lesson about who was in control. I had a rule that I didn’t sleep with men who wore all-white sneakers. I had a rule. There were simply too many white sneakers out there.
Married men did not want a drink. Alcohol on the breath would get noticed. They accepted a glass of water. They were uncertain where they belonged, whether or not they should go straight to the bedroom. They were happy to talk about their wives, partly, I thought, because their wives were the reason they were here. “She’s stopped having s*x with me since she went on her medication for depress
