I walked down the aisle with Anita, my high school sweetheart, when I was just 18. My parents had misgivings; they saw Anita as selfish and self-absorbed. But the more they tried to steer me away from her, the more I dug in my heels and insisted on marrying her. I was young, stubborn, and sure that I knew what love was. I didn't have the grades or the drive for college, so while Anita pursued a business degree, I went to trade school to become a contractor. I figured I'd make good money and support us while she finished school.
A decade later, at 29, I owned my own contracting company. Anita and I jointly owned a house, each had a car, and we were doing alright for ourselves. But our marriage was on the rocks, and I was too distant to notice just how bad things had gotten. I was a country guy at heart, content with fishing, hunting, and bonfires with friends and family. Anita, however, hated the country. She thought hunting was murder and preferred the city, dance music, and crowded clubs.
I tried to accommodate her. We spent weekends in the city at first, but after a few years of marriage, Anita found a career working for some company I never even bothered to learn the name of. She started spending time with her friends from work, and I met a few of them--or rather, I met the women friends she brought over to spend time with us by the lake. They would tan and talk while I drank and fished, listening to my headphones so I didn't have to listen to their incessant chatter about things I really wasn't concerned about.
Our sex life had been good right up until the end. I was an outdoors man, a big guy with a beer gut, tanned from working shirtless in the sun. I tended to the garden every day, chopped wood, and cut down dead trees for the wood stove or the bonfire. I smoked cigars or cigarillos, and Anita had always called me a caveman--at first with love. She seemed to love the way I acted, loved to snuggle into me, laying kisses on my neck and rubbing her cheek against my five o'clock shadow, laughing at the tickle of it.
Anita changed over the years. She started dressing more city than country, wearing skirts or tight dresses to work. She got a weekly Mani-pedi and began to use makeup, first just a bit, but more as time went on. She even got a boob job about four years into our marriage, going from a small B to a larger C. I wasn't complaining, not really. I figured she was trying to compete with the women she worked with.
I didn't complain about any of it. What man would? I loved--or at least I thought I did--her company. She wasn't really the traditional wife type, and I never asked her to be. Home life worked; by the time she got home, I was finishing up dinner. Anita was a shit cook, and thankfully, she knew it. If she called to say she was cooking, that was code for "I bought pizza."
One day, I decided to surprise Anita with a nice dinner and dancing. I made reservations at a fancy Italian restaurant in the city, cleaned and pressed my best suit, and tuned up my Barracuda. I called her, and she brushed me off, saying she had to work late. I was pissed but decided to go to the restaurant anyway. I called Clare, Anita's younger sister, to join me. Clare was excited and showed up looking stunning in a tight black dress that showed off her legs and hugged her body in all the right ways. Her tan skin contrasted beautifully with the paler skin of her chest, and her freckled face broke into a huge smile when she saw my astonished face.
"Shit," I muttered, trying to pick up the cigar I'd dropped. "You okay, John?" Clare called innocently as she walked over gracefully in a pair of black stiletto heels.
"Girl, you're looking far too sinful to be calling out like that," I replied, and she just laughed, brushing her long red hair behind her shoulder.
We drove into the city, and I could talk to her without shouting over the engine. "So, how's things?" I asked her.
"Good," she said, but I could tell something was off. "I got a job at a club called Marlow's. I start on Monday."
"Really? That's great. Will it interfere with your studies much?"
She deflected, glancing out the side window. "No, not really."
"What's up, darling? You know you can tell me anything. I ain't in any position to judge anyone."
"I'm not doing well in school," she admitted. "I know Mom and Dad want me to graduate and be a doctor or follow in Anita's footsteps, but I'm thinking that school isn't for me."
"Well, what do you want to do then?"
"I don't know, take photographs, maybe wander around the woods making videos for YouTube," she said with a laugh, but I got the feeling that was what she wanted to do.
"There isn't a lot of money there. How are you going to take care of yourself? Not to be an ass, but I doubt your parents will keep paying your bills if you drop out of school and bar tending isn't going to pay for that apartment of yours."
"I know that. Maybe I'll find myself a handsome older sugar daddy and be all taken care of by his deep pockets and large..." she trailed off with a mischievous grin.
"Here we are," I interrupted, pulling into the restaurant. We were a little early but not by much, and we were shown right to our table.
The server's eyes never left Clare's chest, and I glared at him until he looked into my eyes and gulped. "I'll have the Bistecca alla Fiorentina with a Jameson, chilled. Clare will have the lasagna and a glass of Sangiovese. Oh, and be quick about it, yes?" I said, butchering the Italian but getting my point across.
I flustered the kid enough that he didn't ask Clare for an order, and when he scurried away, I turned to her. "Sorry for ordering for you. I get a bit... possessive, even when I don't have the right."
She smiled. "No, no, it's fine. But um, you know I'm not twenty-one, right?"
I nodded. "Even so, he isn't going to ask again, so as long as we don't get another server, we're probably in the clear."
We talked about this and that as we waited for our food. Despite how the day started, I was having a really good time. Clare really enjoyed the wine, and I smiled at my choice, remembering that her sister preferred it. I switched to drinking coffee after my glass of whiskey, and the server kept his eyes to himself and was quite respectful for the rest of the night.
When we finished eating we went and sat in the patio section of the restaurant, I lit a cigar, and Clare looked at me, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "The one problem with eating out is that I can't light up immediately after," I said.
"Ha ha, yeah, I'd imagine we'd get thrown out. So, why did you plan the whole nice night out with Anita?" she asked, her voice laced with curiosity.
"What do you mean? Isn't it normal for guys to take their wives out for nice meals?" I asked, feigning ignorance.
"Maybe other guys, but I know you prefer doing the cooking at home and not going into the city unless you have to. This is something my sister would prefer, all this... guffawing," she said, waving her hand dismissively.
"Ha, yeah, I guess you're right. Truth is, I used to think it was our differences that kept us exciting, you know? We challenged each other, steel sharpening steel, and all that. But lately, if we are talking to each other, it's a fight. Otherwise, it's just two people cohabiting, not a marriage."
I sighed, running a hand through my hair. "Sorry to lay that on you."
She placed a hand on mine. "No, Anita's my sister, but you're really important to me too," she said, squeezing my hand.
"Anyways, so you were trying to get closer with her?" she asked, her voice soft.
