Alfred came home to find his coat hanging on the hook next to the door, a puddle spreading beneath it. He shrugged out of his coat and hung it beside his coat. His key in the lock opened the door. There on the floor stood his galoshes, mud drying slowly upon them. He kicked off his galoshes and left them tumbled beside his galoshes. Lights shining from within the house showed a trail of puddles. Voices, familiar and strange, syncopated, breathy, came from upstairs. He followed them. On the stairs he found his jacket (blue), his shirt (yellow), his tie (also blue), and his pants (blue to match the jacket). He stepped over them, his jacket pendant in his right hand.
At the top of the stairs he listened to the voices, and the creaking of bedsprings. He knew one of the voices, knew it inside and out, and felt his blood rush in sympathy as it cried out in the pleasure he knew so well. The other voice he didn’t know, or knew and didn’t, half-familiar, half-strange. Down the hall he walked, and into his bedroom, their bedroom, and the light shining through the open doorway shone on the face of his lover twisted joyously and on the broad back of the figure moving above. His shadow fell on the two as his lover climaxed, and the other one twisted, and Alfred looked at Alfred, in the doorway and on the bed, and Alfred looked at Alfred and Alfred’s shadow fell on Alfred and his lover looked from one, to the other, to the one, at Alfred, at Alfred, at Alfred.