"Honey, do you ever think about other men?" I asked.
My wife, Jardine, paused setting the table, and glanced across the room at me. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean. Dinner's almost ready."
I stood and set aside my laptop on the deep armchair that doubled as my living-room office, when the TV was on. "Okay, I'll wash up," I said.
I returned from the bathroom to find the food dished and Jardine seated to my left, sipping rootbeer from a crystal wine glass. "Your choice," she said. "Coke or root beer."
"I was thinking ice water," I said. "I'll get it."
"Turn the stove off, while you're up," she said. "Then come sit down and tell me about these other men."
I tugged my chair under me and a hop left, as I retrieved my fork. Pork chops, cucumber salad, and mashed potatoes with gravy. Hard to go wrong with that. "What men?" I asked.
"Before you left to wash up," Jar said. "You asked if I thought about other men. What on earth prompted that?"
"Oh," I replied. I'd meant to follow up, but dinner interrupted. I had to rewind the tapes to pick up my thoughts where they left off. "Ah, it was nothing, an article I read online. It said something about ninety percent of women thought about another man when they were having sex with their husband or lover, or whatever."
"Ninety percent?" Jar asked. "That seems like a lot?"
"I might have gotten the numbers wrong," I said. "But it was high. Maybe it was ninety percent of women fantasized about another man, but a smaller number, like sixty percent, thought about other men when in bed."
"Still seems high," Jardine said.
"So, have you?" I asked.
"Have I what? Thought about other men? Like, when? Before we were married?"
"Now?" Jar sliced her pork as she studied her plate.
"Like, ever," I said. "Do you think or fantasize about other men sometimes."
"This isn't the kind of conversation I'd have," she said. "Let's just eat."
"Don't you want to know if I ever fantasized about other women?" I asked.
"No," she replied. "I'm sure you do. All men, do, right?"
I didn't answer that. For one, I wasn't all men, but for two...I wasn't stupid, either. That question was a trap.
"It's okay," Jar said. "We kind of expect it. Women, I mean. We know men are pigs, or dogs, and we expect it, same way we expect you spend every spare moment alone, jerking off into my used underwear."
That seemed harsh. "Not every waking moment," I said.
"I've seen the sticky panties," she remarked, her mouth full.
"Oh," I said. "That was just once, a spur-of-the-moment thing."
"You must have a lot of spurs, cowboy," Jar laughed. "Don't be embarrassed. I know you do it."
I was embarrassed. Mortified, more like it. But I still wanted to know. "So, do you?"
"You really want to know this?" she asked. I nodded. "Now?" I nodded again. "Here, at the dinner table? You don't wanna wait until later, ask it like dirty talk while we fool around, instead?"
Maybe. I couldn't deny, it sounded interesting. "No, now," I said. "No time like the present."
Jardine set down her fork and knife and studied me, her gaze flicking from one eye to the other. "Okay," she said at length, "but no getting mad. You asked, remember?"
She didn't have to say anything more. Her caution was enough. Of course, she had thoughts of other men.
"Sometimes, when I have some 'me time,' I think of old boyfriends," she said. "Not that it's your business."
"Which ones?" I asked.
"Uh-uh. Nope. Not going there," she said. "Conversation closed. I'm not playing that."
"I was just curious, that's all," I said. "I thought we were all about transparency. No secrets."
Jar seemed to mull that over. She knew I was right. "Okay, safe ground, then?"
"Yes," I said. "God, yes."
"Then the answer is sure, I think about former boyfriends, and which ones? All of them. What is this, you want to know about their size? Were they bigger, or longer, or what? Such a guy thing." She shoveled an oversize bit of pork into her lips and followed with some potato.
"It was just an article, that was all," I said, brushing it off.
"So, you're not interested?" Jar's fork paused mid-air, the amusement in her gaze inescapable.
"Well, I mean, if you want to tell me about it, I'll listen," I said.
"If I'd wanted to tell you about it, honey, I would have, but what good can come of tales of former lovers and boyfriends?" Jar sipped her root beer.
I thought about that. Perhaps I'd painted myself into a corner, but I had to go somewhere. I did want to know. I wanted to know every detail. And yet, I didn't. The ghosts were always there, but we both pretended not to see them. Isn't that what all married couples did?
"Do you want to know about mine?" I asked.
"Nope," Jar replied. "If they were better than me, or could stand you, then you'd be with them, wouldn't you, instead of me?"
"There is no one other than you," I replied.
"Mmm, maybe," Jardine said, "but you have to admit, if you'd found the best, then you'd have stopped there and never made it to me. Maybe I'm the fall-back because you couldn't find better?"
I'd unearthed a landmine. I'd be worried except for the crinkles tugging at the corners of Jar's lips. A wry smile.
"Who says you're the place I stopped?" I asked. "Maybe I'm waiting for the perfect fall-back myself, and just haven't found her yet."
"Does it bug you that you want to know about my past," she asked, "and I don't want to know about yours? Don't men always want to show off their ugly bits?"
