But for all the neatness on the outside, inside our ninth-floor apartment, a silence lived between us — one deeper than words. We had been married for fifteen years, yet not once had we been intimate. Not a single night. Not even on our wedding night.
No one suspected a thing. Not the maid, not the doorman, not the delivery boys. They assumed we were like everyone else. But behind the doors of our home, our two pillows never touched.
