Complicity by Mark Canavera
Even today, neither of us knows who cheated first. The moments of discovery—those piercing, icicle moments when the world goes white noise and the senses throb—those we know. The subsequent accusations and investigations, the self-flagellation that occurs when piecing together the shards of events—those we can recall. But we never attempted to tie together the strands of our twin infidelities to create a single narrative with mutually agreed meanings. There probably is no sense to be made from the overlapping layers of lies.
I learned about Ousmane’s indiscretions on the morning after my thirty-second birthday. We were sitting on the balcony of my apartment, drinking coffee and talking through his activities for the coming day. I left him on the balcony, sat d
