We didn't talk in the taxi home. We held hands, our fingers locked tight, staring out opposite windows at a city that looked exactly the same but felt fundamentally altered. The silence wasn't the old, empty kind. It was a thick blanket, muffling everything but the roar of our own thoughts.
Sarah had brought the kids back just before we arrived. Our house was a cacophony of welcome chaos-Lily demanding to see what we'd brought her, Noah attaching himself to Leo's leg, the familiar scent of our home (coffee, baby wipes, lemon cleaner) wrapping around us like a familiar, slightly shabby coat.
It was the most jarring transition of my life. Two hours ago, I had been the centre of a silent, erotic universe. Now, I was wiping yogurt off a cartoon character's face.
"Did you have fun?" Sarah
