Maybe it's just me, but I often buy my special occasion cards at the carwash. Brenda and I have been married for twelve years and, coming after dating for two more prior to that, Valentine's Day had morphed into the annual 'guilt married men into buying flowers and candy for the ball and chain, and take her out for a nice enough dinner.' No male valuing his life will ever admit to that, and Hallmark, restaurants and the chocolate and florist industries keep raking in the extortion money to cover us.
Still, I've always tried to be a good sport about it. Truth is, busy careers and three lovely, but lively girls made seduction a rare art form. So, in a way I welcomed the universal time-out for a little romance.
The division of labor in our household had me doing shopping and taking care of the cars, among others. I noticed that New Years' had barely passed when store shelves became red with candies, cards and all manner of gifts. One evening, I lingered at the supermarket card rack to see if Hallmark's writers have turned to AI to come up with nifty new lines for America's guilt-driven quasi-holiday.
A few days later, I did the same at the carwash while I waited for one of our cars to be dried. Don't know about you, but for some reason carwash cards always seem funnier. Being a chap who fancies himself as having more than a modicum of a sense of humor, I always take some time to scan their selection. One in particular caught my attention. It was so corny it stuck out--something featuring roses being red, and chocolate being sweet. So bad I wondered if all the other stores rejected it and the vendor gave the carwash a 90% discount on it. I certainly hadn't seen it in the grocery stores I shopped at.
I finally found a cute one I hadn't seen before, and headed out just as they waved for my car being ready.
Two days before V-Day, I took the afternoon off to get Brenda a few gifts, and to pick up my dry-cleaned suit and the roses I had ordered earlier, so I could take them to the restaurant where they would present them to my loving wife at the table.
Because I arrived home before anyone else, I decided to do Brenda's chore and pick up our mail from the communal locked mailbox. Walking home, I flipped through the mail, and frowned when I saw a red card envelope with no return address. Hmm...
I dropped the stack of mail on the kitchen counter and stared at the red envelope, my spidey senses aquiver. I quickly put on the kettle for some rooibos tea and envelope opening. Would you believe it--it was that horrible cliché-laden card from the carwash. My heart froze when I saw how the card was personalized. The roses that are red apparently will be waiting in room 217, but it didn't say where. The chocolates would also be sweeter after they were melted inside my wife's sweet honeypot. It was signed S, below the instruction: For an unforgettable Valentine's, take the afternoon off.
I took a picture with my phone, put the card back, and resealed the envelope. Then I stuck it in the middle of the pile and went upstairs to change. I had to do something to wrap my head around the collapse of my life.
S? Shithead? No, probably not. Even though it fit. Was it someone at work? Someone from school? And room 217? Which room 217?
What do I do? We keep whiskey for a few guests who drink it, although I never touch the stuff myself. Until that day. Like a B-movie actor, I took a swig from the bottle, changed into sweats, and took off for a long walk through the park across the creek. Mind spinning, legs pumping and heart beating, I worked up a good sweat, but came back with nothing in the way of ideas.
When I returned, I took a shower, and when I was done, I heard the noise of Brenda and the girls chattering downstairs. As I entered the kitchen, I noticed the pile of mail had been moved to the little desk she had for her kitchen management. Without the red envelope. An ice cold rock settled in my gut. S? S who?
The girls, as usual, dominated the discussion during dinner. By bedtime, I was able to rustle up some semblance of normality. No romance that evening, which had become the new normal. Shit. I was staring at the loss of my girls. Fuck Brenda. If she was a cheating bitch, then good riddance. But my girls? Smart, lively, precocious, how was I going to endure being separated from them? Fuck.
Then my thoughts turned to what I possibly had done to screw up our marriage. Wryly, I grimaced. At least I couldn't be accused of pissing off the Valentine's Day gods. I had my V-ducks all in a row. Not in a row enough, though, it would appear. Was I going to be the schmuck who went the extra mile, and spent the extra dollar, only to get sloppy seconds as an in-your-face reward? I don't think so, Tim.
Who was the mysterious S? I ran my mental Rolodex of the men Brenda might know. None at her job. Steve was the only S at my job, but he was over 50, fat and bald. Hmm, neighbors? Ahh, Slade Hemmers, maybe? He lived in the house behind us with his wife Molly. But why would Slade cheat on Molly? Not only was she more stacked than Brenda, she was a much nicer person. Why would anybody cheat on a solid 10? And with Brenda? Not that she wasn't attractive, but the years and kids had loaded her up with a few pounds of mommy-roll on her stomach and cellulite on her legs. In the dark, I shook my head. That just made no sense. But who else? Did she meet a guy at the gym she hadn't told me about? I only had a few days to find out.
My mind moved to the next thought. No matter who it was, there would be NO sloppy seconds after our expensive Valentine's Day dinner. I could cancel the dinner. The restaurant would be only too happy to accommodate some other sucker who waited until the last minute. But what excuse would I offer? Or, I could head off the tryst at room 217 of whatever shlocky motel the love of my life planned to open her legs in. Maybe I could get Molly to derail Slade's plans for an afternoon unaccounted for? But I had no contact info for Molly, and asking Brenda for it so soon before she planned to hook up with her husband could make Brenda suspicious.
But... would that be such a bad thing? What if I could make either Slade, or Brenda, so nervous they cancel their room 217 tryst? At least that would spare me sloppy seconds. Sure, it may not stop any more hookups, but it would solve the immediate problem--sloppy seconds on Valentine's night.
--
Over breakfast the next morning, I acted withdrawn and edgy. "Hey, do you have Molly's phone number?"
As I expected, Brenda instantly went on high alert. "Why?"
Poking the bear, I frowned. "Is that a yes or a no?"
"Why do you want Molly's number?"
"They're neighbors and if anything happened I wanted to have our neighbors' contact info. Do you have her email address?"
"Why do you want Molly's number? Don't you have Slade's?"
"Yes, I do." Staring hard at her, I asked, "Do you?"
Flustered, she asked, "Do I what?"
"Do you have Slade's number?"
Her cast down eyes gave her away. Bingo.
I wasn't letting her off the hook. "Well, if you have his number, why do you think it strange if I have hers?"
"I just don't see why you need our neighbor's wife's number."
"I don't see why you should have our neighbor's number, but you do. Isn't that a bit hypocritical? But never mind, I can get her number from one of the other neighbors. Sandy runs the homeowners' association, I'm sure she'll have it."
"What are you going to tell Sandy, why do you need it?"
"The truth: my wife knows, but she won't give it to me."
"You can't say that! How will that make me look?"
With a slight smile I looked at her worried face. "I give up. How WILL that make you look?"
Brenda rolled her eyes. "Hold on, let me look it up."
