These stories sow the seeds of doubt. I begin to live in them. I look for evidence to believe them. When it becomes difficult to dismiss them as groundless gossip, I confront him. It is unpleasant and painful. Like cutting into my own flesh with a blade. Like taking someone captive. It breaks the languid charm of our relationship – that space without fights, that absence of raised voices, that snuggle-area we have fashioned for ourselves, where hurt does not enter, or exist.
