I approached my neighborhood I began to think of some of the negatives related to the decisions I had made. If Melissa and I wound up in Pennsylvania I would have little face-to-face contact with my kids. I was sure they were mature enough to handle the ramifications of their parents' divorce but I would have less impact on their future development. If we wound up in Atlanta I would have more contact with my kids but life would be tougher on Melissa. My co-workers all knew and liked Joan; it would be difficult for Melissa to be accepted.
And then there was our house, which would go to Joan. I would probably be able to afford a more expensive house some day but I doubted I'd ever have one I liked as much. It was a split level house, with a fourth level, a true cellar which the builder added at our request. It had four bedrooms on the top level including our master bedroom; the main level had a formal living room, a formal dining room and a large kitchen which overlooked the family room on the lower level. The lower level also had a playroom with a built-in wet bar and a pool table for which the builder located a ceiling light in the exact center of where the table would be placed. We put a table tennis table in the cellar, and I built some racks for wine storage. The temperature there was always between 60 and 65 degrees, perfect for wine storage.
Being the first ones in a new neighborhood, we chose the highest lot on a cul-de-sac. Even though our house had a lower profile than the two-story houses which were built after ours, our roof line was even with or above the others, creating a very pleasing look as one rode toward the cul-de-sac, what the realtors call curb appeal.
I thought about all this as I approached the house. It was about 8:30 on a Friday evening but I could see only one light on in our house, in the bedroom of one of the kids. Normally, they and some of their friends would be playing pool in the playroom, which faced the front of the house, right below the master bedroom. Both of these rooms were dark as was the living room which also faced the front.
I drove up the driveway on the far side of the house, then turned into the two-car carport. This was the only feature of the house I didn't like. I would have preferred a garage but, even if we had modified the plan for a garage, it would have still been necessary to walk about ten feet on an exposed walkway to reach the enclosed back porch, which was behind the kitchen. This short walk was no fun during heavy rain storms.
I made my way through the porch to the back door, suitcase in one hand, attaché case in the other, and my raincoat draped over my shoulder. As one enters through this door, all the kitchen appliances are to the right, the casual dining table, where we ate virtually all our meals, is to the left and further to the left is the look-thru to the family room.
On this night the only light on in the kitchen or the family room was the little light in the vent above the cooktop. And right in front of me in the near-darkness was this beautiful creature!
I put my cases down and dropped the raincoat over one of the chairs.
"You're all dressed up. Were you just out, or were we supposed to go out?"
"No. Can't a woman dress up just for her husband?"
"Well, of course! And you look very good, but where are the kids?"
"They're in their bedrooms. I told them not to come out."
Joan looked beautiful. Her hair was shoulder length in soft cascading curls, she was wearing lipstick and light makeup on her face, and I could tell she had perfume on, Chanel No. 5. She had on one of several silk blouses she owned, a translucent white shade which just enabled you to make out the lines of her bra if you looked hard or she put her shoulders back. Her skirt was a slim, black number which ended about three inches above her knees. Neither the blouse nor the skirt was new, but I hadn't seen her wear them in at least two years.
What's happened? How long has it been since I've looked at her? She couldn't have lost so much weight or grown out her hair in just a few days!
I know all this happened in just a couple of seconds, but I felt as if everything was occurring in slow motion. She was moving toward me, putting her arms around my neck, kissing me, extending her tongue into my mouth.
She never kisses like this right out of the blue.
My penis, which obviously has a mind of its own, was getting hard, and she knew it as she pressed her body against me. Somehow, one of my hands found a resting place on her ass, which felt pretty good.
It's not a teenager's ass like Melissa has, but it is firm, not the ass she had the last time I felt it.
"Let's go upstairs," she said as she disengaged her mouth from mine and took my hand.
The thought of taking my hand away, of saying no, of telling her I had made a decision just that day to leave her -- none of these entered my mind. It also did not occur to me that making love to Joan would somehow be cheating on Melissa, since I had just made a total commitment to her.
Was I weak? Would I have gone up those steps with any reasonably decent-looking woman who wanted me? Or was this giving me the opportunity to rescind a hard decision I had made and replace it with the easy out of the status quo?
I don't know, even now. What I do know is that I went willingly. Joan and I made love to one another for the first time in about a year.
We had sex several times over the weekend. It was not much different from what it had been in the past, but it was better simply knowing Joan really wanted it, as opposed to doing it occasionally just to verify that I still desired her, which was the feeling I often had in the past.
She really does still love me!
On Sunday afternoon, away from the kids, she said, "Bob, I don't know what's wrong, but I know that something is seriously wrong. I want to see a counselor; I hope you'll go with me but, with or without you, I'm going. I've gotten information on three different people." With that, she handed me three sheets of paper. "The first is a minister who specializes in family counseling, the second is a private family counselor, not affiliated with any religion, and the third is a regular psychiatrist, not a family counselor, though marriage problems are a large part of his practice."
I looked over the resumes of the three counselors. "I'll go with you," I said, "but only to the regular psychiatrist."
"I knew you'd say that. I've already made an appointment for Monday. I hope you'll stay home and go with me."
ME AND MY THERAPIST
Monday morning rolled around and nothing was as I had planned it. Instead of talking with my friend in the office I was talking with a psychiatrist. Instead of planning to divorce Joan and firm up my relationship with Melissa, I was thinking of firming up my relationship with Joan. I was in a quandary; two women were in love with me and I felt as if I was in love with both of them, an impossibility by my own definition.
