Rae is suspicious. “Have you been obsessing and buying?” she’s asked me a number of times in the past few weeks. I look directly at my life partner of thirty-nine years, and I lie. I tell myself I don’t want to hurt her. Nonsense. I fear losing her affection. I don’t want to look bad in her eyes. I’m afraid of her anger. That’s what I don’t want. I’ve given hints—almost as if I wanted to be caught. “You look stressed,” Rae remarks one evening in early January. “Yes, it’s all these CDs,” I begin to reply. She eyes me: my embarrassment is instant and palpable. “I mean, all these CVs I have to
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