And it wasn't at all for nothing

that you came by last night," I said, carefully shutting the door. I turned and stared at the shivering and teary-eyed Martha Burns.

"Oh, I wasn't..." she looked down at the floor, not bothering to finish her sentence. She then lifted up a crumpled Kleenex and blew her nose loudly. She pondered for a moment and then looked straight at me with an earnest look in her eyes.

"My husband is a wonderful man; I've been with him for forty years. I know you're just beginning that journey yourself, and I don't want to scare you, Roger, at all." She had moved across the room and was now standing with her back to me, staring at a picture of a vase of yellow and red roses in the middle of the wall.

Her words puzzled me, but also produced compassion. This was completely unnecessary, I thought, and I felt sympathy for her, although I had no idea how to express it from one professional to another. I took a sip from my gin and tonic, not quite sure how to proceed. She had rudely interrupted my evening reverie of liquor and German philosophy just a few minutes ago, barging in through my unfortunately open door.

She put her hands on her hips. She was wearing a black saffron dress with a red trim that would ordinarily have made her look dashing, but in this context more like a morose widow. "I know you know James, and you think you know him well. So you're probably shocked at what happened, and I can't blame you."

At the end of the sentence her voice became tense with emotion, and one hand came up to cover her mouth with her tissue.

I stood, swirling the liquid in my glass, and finally made up my mind to say something.

"Martha, yes, I know James, and I understand that these sort of things happen from time to time when men are under stress and have great responsibilities." I was trying to find the most polite way to put this. "Its effects on your marriage I won't try to imagine, but as for his reputation at the company, I can assure you, we understand that this one slip up doesn't have to be the end of his career."

At this Martha turned around having finally given up on the picture of roses.

Her hands clutched the crumpled tissue in front of her face as though she were praying to me.

"That's just it..." she began, and her voice became a wimper. "Its not... the first."

At this my eyebrows went up, although I managed not to give away any other sign of surprise. I coughed and looked down at my drink. Martha moved closer, hands still clutched, beseeching me.

"James always liked the girl next door, and I never quite knew what to do about it." Her words were coming out faster now, her voice stronger and clearer. "But... well... you understand... a woman in my position must learn to live with what is possible, what is realistic."

My face began to blush slightly; I felt this information was far beyond my need of information given my position as a young employee of this woman's husband. Thankfully, she continued without waiting for me to say something.

"I couldn't leave him, and I hope you understand that its really been alright. We've worked things out. It seems bad on the outside; I know it does." She turned and walked to the kitchen, pacing around the table slowly and distractedly.

I decided that I needed to do something to alleviate Martha's conscience, which for some odd reason had brought her to my door.

"Martha..." I said, focusing on my words, which mattered ever so much at this moment. "Just don't give up. It'll all be good in the morning. I won't mention a thing to anyone, not a soul, promise. Just take care of yourself..."

She looked back at the picture of the yellow roses, wistfully, but no longer teary eyed. Then she looked back at me for a long, steady moment.