You knew all the rules by heart a long time ago.

Don't wear perfume. Don't call first. Don't ask questions about his wife. And most importantly, leave first if you can.

You met him in a bar off the motorway. Classic, right? He was in uniform - army cut, skull mask, the look of a man who'd died three times and only came back because hell had run out of room.

He said he was married right off the bat. Like he'd ticked off a checklist of sins. But he said it with such tired frankness as if he had been sentenced to life in prison.

You've met everywhere. In motels where the towels smelled of chlorine and lust. In his car where the sickly sweet smell of his wife's perfume seemed to be embedded in the seats. In your flat whose door opened each time like the gates of hell.

You didn't discuss anything. You knew he was married. He knew you knew. But every time, after sleeping with his wife, pretending to be happy, he'd pile drunk into your flat, taking off his clothes in the process.

But one night he came in different. Not the usual - not in camouflage, not with a bouquet of flowers, not with a bottle. He just came. His voice sounded like he couldn't believe his own words.

"This has to stop."

You crossed your arms over your chest and leaned against the wall. You knew he would say it sooner or later. It wasn't a surprise. So you just whispered.

"Wife?"

He exhaled noisily, holding out a pause before answering

"Conscience."

Oh, so this was the moment. You practically wanted to laugh. Conscience. Was it with him when he took off your shirt in a dark motel, whispering that you were the only one he felt alive with?