Husbands always want to know "the details" from their cheating wives. When did it happen? Who was he? What was she wearing? What was she thinking? On and on the questions swirl in the mind of the poor husband, tormenting him. Paul is a typical husband and he wanted to know and so here are the details, all of them.
Let's begin by describing your wife, Monique. She a 30-something professional about 5.6, weighing in at 124lbs on the morning she first cheated (she stepped on the scale in the bathroom while you scratched about in the back of the kitchen cupboard for the coffee filters). Her hair is brown with copper highlights cut into a bob. There is a certain darkness to her eyes that gives her a look of intensity although when she smiles her face illuminates and draws you in. She winds and contorts her body into yoga poses in her home study most mornings and visits the yoga studio a few times a week. She toys with Buddhism and meditation but never really commits to either. You don't see it but she's restless after seven years of marriage.
When you finally reached the coffee filters lodged at the back of the cupboard, swearing under your breath, Monique sensed your irritation wafting up through the house and she shrank back into her skin a little. It had become so familiar, your irritation and her feeling boxed in. When she stepped off the scale your wife looked anxiously at herself in the mirror. She tried to see herself through other's eyes, specifically through the eyes of one particular man. She felt a tightening in her stomach as she remembered the way he'd looked at her the day before as if she were something to be plucked, sucked on and spat out. It was a look that almost demolished her. Her nervousness spread from her stomach to her hands which shook a little as she squeezed a strip of toothpaste onto her brush. She bared her teeth to the mirror and while she rhythmically brushed she replayed in her mind the story of her new situation.
Do you want to know what her thoughts were, Paul? Of course you do.
You've met her lover (yes, your wife's lover) at one of those work parties you attend under protest. This was before they were lovers of course. You shook his hand. He introduced himself as Blake. Yes, he's the one, Paul. Now you know. The story of Monique and Blake begins after work one dark late winter evening in a bar in town. Monique and a couple of girlfriends are having a drink. Denise, who is single, is dating a friend of Blake's and says:
"So, the guys are sitting around and someone, James I think, asks who in the office would you fuck? And they choose the predictable ones, you know, Natalie of course, and Angie. They have no imagination these guys; it's all big tits and young girls."
All the women laughed in agreement. Monique wasn't paying much attention really. In fact, Paul, she was thinking that she needed to get home and was regretting staying for another drink. So much rests on such small decisions. If she'd left the bar earlier perhaps nothing would have happened. But she leaned in with the others as Denise, in almost a whisper says, staring directly at your wife:
"But Blake apparently said that he would love to fuck you."
You would have recognized the flush of red that instantly appeared at Monique's throat. She was surprised but secretly pleased, feeling once again the schoolyard thrill of being named the object of a boy's interest. She thought of Blake as arrogant and standoffish and as far as she could recall he had hardly ever said anything to her. She left the bar soon afterwards.
That could have been the end of it but a second piece of bad luck (for you) was that the next day at work while Monique was standing at the printer Blake appeared at her side. When she saw who it was she blushed and stammered a greeting. He smiled and made a small joke. Your wife noticed his hands as he reached for the papers. They were big and looked strong. Her eyes travelled up and rested on the twist of defined muscles on his forearm. She snatched her eyes away and turned, suddenly panicked by her brazenness. She found herself facing the coffee machine and imagined his eyes examining her. Then Blake spoke to your wife:
"The coffee here is crap. I usually go down Main Street to the coffee shop. You should try it."
"Which one is that?" she replied, turning to face him.
"I'll show you if you like," he said casually.
"No it's okay," she said quickly, "I'll find it."
"I'm usually there about three. Maybe I'll see you there."
With that he left your wife, her knees a little weak and her heart pounding. It took several days before she took the afternoon walk down Main Street. Do you remember the evening you came home late and Monique was lying on the couch with the television on low? It was then that she finally decided she would meet Blake. She debated with herself but she was finally convinced by the argument that it was only coffee and there was no reason why she shouldn't meet someone for coffee. Besides, Blake would probably not be there and this was all a lot of fuss about nothing. But she also knew she wouldn't tell you about it, that she would keep her trip to the coffee shop a secret. This was her first betrayal of you.
Blake smiled his broad smile when she pushed her head around the door of the coffee shop and he summoned her over with a lavish wave. He was a few years younger than your wife but his height and confidence gave Monique the sense that she was the inexperienced one. She ordered her coffee and settled in on the hard chair opposite him. I will give you just a few snippets of the conversation to satisfy your morbid curiosity.
"So, you're married I hear," Blake says leaning back as if to take all of her in.
"Yes, I am."
"How's that then?
"Fine."
