A good man would have cleaned up, given Ash a drink, and unselfishly listened to everything he needed to say. A good man wouldn’t grab Ash’s still wet shirt and drag him into the bedroom for more. A good man wouldn’t spend the next five hours in rough, filthy embraces without any thought of the ring still on Ash’s finger.
But I already told you at the beginning of the story:
I am not a good man.