As Mark drifted off to sleep, he reflected on the just-ending day. It had been a day off from work and he was pleased that he had used the time wisely, knocking off a few projects he had been contemplating for a while.

He had varnished a chair.

He had purged some CDs that he didn’t listen to anymore. Of course, he ripped a few choice songs onto his hard drive, but he had also earned fifty bucks selling the useless pile to a local used-music store.

He had balanced his checkbook, washed the car, secured an errant gutter to the eave of his house.

He had composed and mailed a thank-you note to his aunt.

He had gone out to a movie, had a nice dinner at that new Cuban place, and enjoyed drinks and dancing afterward.

But, and this, to him, was the best part, he had also fingered Angela, the unoccupied hand fondling her exposed breast, in the backseat of his Oldsmobile, and he was reasonably certain that her husband would never know.

Yes he thought. Today was indeed a productive day.