My Another Love

Yes, I DO have written permission from 'RichardGerald' to publish this version of his story.

Author's Note:

Since this is going into "Loving Wives," To any Trolls!!! :)

We all know the only reason you're InCells, is because you're afraid of pussy.

To everybody else,

So I learned about RichardGerald's "Another Love" from a comment on one of my stories from NickTee. So when I finally tracked down the original through the hundreds of variants out there, I was very interested. I saw that Richard has stated that he wanted to write the story of a man who internalized his feelings. And I think the story does a great job of that. He even does a great job of showing that love should be cherished. That it's special. Important.

I -

think

- where the issue happens for most of us is the wife, Karen. She's just... Well, I didn't invent anything in this version. I just took what was in the original and took it in a natural direction... For me anyway.

Thank you.

******************************************************************************

My "Another Love"

I hate airports. My first time in an airport was when my parents dropped me off to join the Navy. The second was a few years later, when I came home for their funeral. That probably explains the dread I'm feeling right now, standing in O'Hare International Airport. I just got here and I REALLY don't want to do this but deep down, I know I need to.

Being here... Well it's just not how I normally behave. I'm usually pretty mild, you know? But because of my wife, Karen, that fu... I take a breath. Then another, trying to calm myself. Last week I took my wife to the airport. Swore I'd miss her. Asked her to come back soon... Yeah...

Karen and I have been married for 26 years. And I loved her madly -

every -

single - day of our marriage. I only wish the feeling had been reciprocated... Sorry, getting ahead of myself.

We met not long after I got out of the Navy. God, she was gorgeous. She was working a public screening table for the Health Department and I had just failed my blood pressure test. Probably because a hot girl was handling my arm. I didn't have a lot of experience with girls at the time. And by 'not a lot' I mean, None.

My nervousness led to me talking too much, which I think she thought was cute. And that led to lunches and dates and... some of the best days of my life. That led to marriage and a job at the local university and children and a house. A big house. "

I don't want a big wedding, but a house would be nice.

" She said. Yeah. A four story mid-nineteenth-century Victorian row house. A fixer upper. It was a monster. But we did the work and eventually it was perfect. Our son Kevin grew up running laps through the place. We went to work, he went to school, sex was great and three years later we had another son, Oscar. I didn't think I could ever be happier.

But then Postpartum Depression hit Karen like a hammer. I did what I could to help; tried to be there for her, for the kids. But eventually she had to go back to work. Not because of the money but because she needed to do something. Anything, other than just being. I understood and I hoped it worked. And after a year or so it did. She started bringing home various books on how to improve your sex life. Like, "The Joy of Sex" and several others. Our sex life got rekindled and she was back to her old self. Then Saddam Hussein invaded Kuwait.

It was 1990 and I was still in the Navy Reserves. I was called up. Karen was a mess but trying to hold it together. The kids were scared. Hell, I was scared but I had to make it through to get back to my family. It was tough but the year passed and I made it home. It took me a bit to get myself together. I worked the flight deck of an aircraft carrier. Men died within arm's reach of me. The experience left a mark.

BUT, with Karen and the boys' help, I got through that too. Life got back to normal. The boys grew up and moved out, some faster than others. Oscar left for UCLA the minute he graduated highschool. But his older brother? Kevin? He took over the fourth floor, went to school at the local college and I wasn't sure if that kid would

ever

leave. But six months ago, after Grad school, he got a job in Chicago.

We've been to see both of them a few times but honestly it's just awkward. They're grown men now and have their own lives. And we don't have anything in common anymore. So it's always a few days of us standing there not talking. Trying to figure out what we should say and feeling uncomfortable around each other. For me, I mean. Karen has NO problem. Those boys could talk to her about the health of inchworms and be interested. I guess I'm a little jealous of that but she IS their mother.

Then a few weeks ago I came home and Karen was a wreck, grieving for her boys in this empty house. Or so I thought. I'd heard that "Empty Nesters" could hit pretty hard. She had plenty of vacation time, though I had a research project at the University I couldn't leave. So I told her she should go visit the boys. There was no reason why I had to be there anyway. So last week I took her to the airport and begged her to hurry home. That was on a Wednesday. Bastardized from the old Norse, Wooten's Day. Which is an ancient name for Odin... My mind's wandering. Trying to avoid the next part.

It was Saturday... There was a knock at the door.

When I opened the door I saw a small Asian woman standing there. She had on a pair of sexy high heeled black leather boots. With an expensive black dress suit over a gray silk blouse. She looked to be about fifty-two-ish but she wore it well. Something about her made me think of Karen. Something about the way they held themselves, I guess.

"May I help you?" I asked.

"Oui, I am seeking Karen." She was adjusting a large rectangular package, wrapped in brown paper. It was large enough for her to have leaned it against the railing.

We spoke for a few moments, her name was Avril Du Monte. I explained that Karen was out of town but invited her in. I picked up her package for her and followed her into our front Parlor. From the way she moved I could tell she'd been here before. I sat the package on the love seat next to where she had placed herself. She requested some of my wife's favorite tea, Formosa Bai Hao. And once I returned with it and a soda for myself, I sat down in the wingback across from her.

With a curious smile I asked, "Now, why don't you tell me what this is all about?"

"You are as ruggedly handsome as Karen described you. I called this morning on a spur of the instant as I remembered that I had her portrait to deliver. I'm driving to New York for the discussions on Philippe's retrospective exposition at the Museum of Modern Art. I left a message in her mail, but perhaps she did not get it?" She said between sips of tea, as if I should know who Philippe was.

"She left to see our children on Wednesday, I'm afraid. She should be in California, with our son Oscar right now." I told her.

"Oh dear, I should have called sooner. I so wanted to see her hang it. I think it is one of Philippe's best works. Certainly the most lovingly done."

I laughed a little, I'm not sure why. Maybe some sixth sense telling me I really didn't want to be here? But before I could say anything she had set her cup down and deftly untied the bow in one smoothe pull. The paper fell away and there she was. My wife. Karen.

At first, I didn't know what I was looking at. I'm not an expert on art by any means, but I do have fond memories of going to museums with my parents. I do have a

passing

understanding of the artform. It made me think the artist was a fan of Rembrandt's, due to how his lighting had that golden glow that Rembrandt always had. My mind was trying to avoid the problem.

In the picture, Karen was caught in the act of bending forward to recover her panties from her grandmother's vanity chair. She was completely nude and looked phenomenal. Even now I can admit that. From the green and gold wallpaper I could tell it was our bedroom, even if the vanity had not given it away. OUR - home. That we had bought with my Navy savings and my VA loan. In the bedroom we shared for the last 26 years. The painter had not missed the small suggestive smirk that she was so fond of. The smile that bid you come here and let's see what you got. He was good, probably great, and if it was any other woman? I wouldn't be on the verge of burning the thing! He had painted her with our unmade bed in the background. Avril took one look at me and her smile faded.

"Oh, cherie, I thought you knew... After all, they lived together. They were lovers for years. Oh my god, how could you not know?"

"How?!" I almost screamed. "She's lived with me for almost 30 years! That's our bedroom. With our wallpaper that we hung together. That's our bed!!!" I yelled.

"I should go." She started to rise.

"SIT!" I pointed.

She quickly sat back down while I rubbed my face with both hands. I took in a DEEP cleansing breath and let it out slowly.

"Who are you? How do you know my wife? And who - the - FUCK - is Phillipe?"

Eventually she started talking. Avril's husband, Philippe Du Monte, was a painter. And in 1989 he was hired to restore six paintings vandalized on the South Mall. Shortly after Phil arrived, the affair started. He met Karen in the South Mall over lunch. He worked in the Museum building and she worked in the Tower building.

"We were young and did not wish to miss anything, but mature enough to understand each other's needs." Avril told me.

He traveled back and forth to Montreal, but spent most of his days and nights in Albany. Then, in the summer of 1990 he moved into my house with Karen. Avril visited on a number of occasions. She knew I was away and still married to Karen, but the reason was never explained. Karen took the boys to their home in Canada for Christmas that year. And the worst of all, she went back there to see him every - single - month for the last 20 years of our marriage.

"I just assumed... She spoke of you lovingly and praised you as a husband and father. I understood that Philippe moved in because you could not be with her, and there were such small children... How could you not know?"

I was deflated.

"I didn't know, because she never told me." I sighed.

And even then I thought. "

And thank God, I didn't know when I was aboard the Eisenhower

!" The thought of making it back to my loving wife and family was the only thing keeping me sane at the time.

"She loves you dearly and with all her heart. Philippe was her second man, her petite passion, her older experienced lover. She did not have much experience. They were, as the saying goes,

in love with being in love

." She looked at me as if this should mean something.

"You'll forgive me if I can't shrug off a 20 year betrayal, just because you're French." I sighed.

Avril didn't seem to know what to say to that. But she went on to explain that Phil had died a few weeks ago. Heart Failure. He had expressed how he wished for Karen to have the painting and that is why she brought it.

"When?" I asked. When I saw that she was confused by my question, I asked, "When did he die?"

Once she told me the date I realized THAT was the day Karen had broken down. I thought it was "Empty Nester's Syndrome." Because I'm a fool.

"It is magnificent, no?" She asked.

I looked at the painting. "Oh, yes." I nodded. "He has captured the slut in all of her glory."

Avril gasped, "No! No! You must understand theirs was a thing of beauty, innocent love. Please understand," She pleaded.

"There's nothing to understand." I shook my head. "She cheated on me for the last twenty years and she was

-never-

going to tell me."

"This is all my fault." She almost whined.

"No." I shook my head at her again. "YOU have made sure that I am no longer a fool. And I will

always

be grateful for that."

"And the painting?" She asked. "It is very valuable. Please promise me that you will see it safely to Karen."

"No." I laughed as I stood and walked to the picture of my whore. Avril started to lean over the picture as if to block me from it. "I'm not going to damage it." I laughed again. "It is a masterpiece. As much as I'd like to say otherwise, he really was a very talented artist." I gently pushed her back out of my way and rewrapped the picture in its protective paper.

"What are you going to do, cherie?"

I stood up and looked down at her. "

-I-

am going to go into my Den and drink an entire bottle of Johnny Black. But

-YOU-

and this painting, need to be gone by then. Because I don't know what I'm going to see as

reasonable

when I get to the bottom of that bottle."

She nodded, there was nothing more she could say. I helped her store the damned thing in her car and saw her off. Then I went back inside and poured myself a triple.

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I woke up in the morning on the lounger in our backyard, my head was killing me. At some point I had started drinking the scotch straight from the bottle. The corpsman in the Navy had told us liquor was a diuretic. Meaning it sucked water out of your system. The hangover is actually a dehydration headache, the same you'd get being trapped in the desert. I needed water. I sat up and unintentionally knocked the empty bottle of Johnny out of the way with my foot. The empty bottle skidded and skipped across the paving stones like it was laughing at me.

I stumbled into the kitchen. Thankfully I was still dressed. More to the point, I still had my shoes on. Which was very relieving when I heard broken glass being crushed under every step I took. I didn't have time to think about it. I filled a glass with cold water and drank it slowly. After several minutes I refilled it and continued to sip it down.

I was finally feeling good enough to look at what was going on with all of the broken glass on the floor. And then Ohhhhh... Her French Press, her floral teapot, her fine porcelain tea cups, her crystal wine glasses. And her coffee cups? If it was breakable and in the kitchen I must have smashed it.

"Huh."

There were also pictures missing from the kitchen walls. Prints and photos that she loved but none of them were smashed on the floor. So where were they? I kept sipping my water but made a pot of coffee. Maybe I should check the rest of the house?

I walked into the dinning room. All of her china was smashed but where was her china cabinet? There was enough glass on the floor that I figured I probably slammed it over, smashing its glass panes. But where was the rest of it?

I headed back to the kitchen and poured myself a cup of coffee. As I added cream and sugar I had the vague memory of a bonfire. And I

think

I was laughing between gulps of scotch. I took a sip of coffee as I walked to the back window. WOW. That's a big ash pile in the middle of my small backyard. But I found the china cabinet, one of its doors had survived enough for me to recognize it. Was that a box spring? From a bed? I sipped my coffee.

Walking through the house I noticed the only things I destroyed were Karen's things. Photos of her and the boys? Gone. Photos of her parents, who were dead? Gone. "Drunk Rob" was a heartless bastard. I smiled as I sipped my coffee. Her mother's old fashioned loveseat, the one that Avril had sat on? Gone. As I walked upstairs I saw conspicuous vacancies of more photos and paintings that she had loved. Guess I know where they are now. Then I came to our bedroom.

Our bed. The two side tables. Her grandmother's vanity!?! GONE! I laughed so hard I had to sit down on the floor, because there was no furniture in here anymore! Her dresser with all of her clothes was gone too. I climbed back to my feet and laughed my way to the closet. Yup, all of her designer clothes were gone. I hope she took her favorites with her to see our boys.

I checked our bathroom and saw a scattered pile of various products dumped on the floor. It looked like I smashed or emptied out any skin creams, makeup or anything else that was hers. I seemed to have been

trying

to hit the toilet. But it looked like I missed just as many times as I hit. A few looked to be salvageable but I knew I'd be throwing them away when I had to clean this up. I guess "Sober Rob" wasn't much better than the drunk one.

"I gotta get this cleaned up before I sell the house."

My words stunned me. That Freudian slip was my first clue that I knew what I was going to do next. I nodded to myself and went back to the kitchen. Then my phone rang. When I pulled it out of my pocket I could see that it was my son, Kevin. 9:03 in the morning. Man, I really

tied one on

last night.

"Hey, Kevin." I say as I accept the call.

"Dad! Are you OK?!"

"No."

"...Where are you?" He asked.

"I'm at home." I shrugged. "Where are you?"

I heard him blurt out a small laugh. "I'm at home. Mom's worried, she says you wouldn't answer the phone."

"I was asleep."

"Oh... So, what are you doing now?"

"Cleaning, you know."

"Oh... Well, I'll let you get back to it. Talk to you later." He said.

"Sounds good."

And then he hung up. That was one of our better conversations. I checked my phone and saw that I had missed several calls from Karen and one from Oscar. I started cleaning up the kitchen. I had finished sweeping everything up and mopping when my phone rang again, it was Oscar.

"Hey, Oscar." I actually felt myself smile.

"Hey, Dad. I just got off the phone with Kevin, you OK?"

"No."

"Sorry!Sorry! Stupid question."

I laughed... "You OK?" I asked.

"Yeah, just worried about you and Mom. She really wants to talk to you."

"Well, I'm sorry but that's not going to happen."

"Dad. She's a wreck."

"Oh, I don't doubt she's putting on a great show, but a wreck?.. I can't believe that."

"But..."

"Oscar!" I interrupted. "She's been carrying on a twenty year affair behind my back! A weekend every month she'd fly to Montreal to screw the guy."

"Uhhhh...Wha...?"

"And now I'm supposed to believe she's devastated?... I doubt it." I told him.

"...I... did NOT know that." He said succinctly.

"Yeah. So unless she can somehow talk her way into UNscrewing the guy? I'd rather not listen to any more of her lies."

He sighed. "I'm sorry."

I shook my head, not even thinking about how he couldn't see it. "You haven't done anything to be sorry for.

I'M

sorry you boys are caught in the middle of this. But for now, yeah. I have to get back to cleaning. I'll talk to you later. OK?"

"OK. Talk to you soon."

And then I hung up. I took in a deep breath and then got back to it. I spent all day that Sunday cleaning up the mess I had made. By sunset I had seven large bags of trash at the curb and the can was full. Along with the metal frames of the box spring, the mattress, the loveseat... Yeah, you get it. I would have to call the city for a bulk pick up tomorrow. I was exhausted, it had seemed like such a good idea last night when I was drunk.

It just wasn't fair. She caused all of this and now she's got our boys to comfort her. What do I have? Our boys were more HER boys than mine. We hadn't been close since they were little... Why was that? And WHY couldn't I go see them? Not with her obviously, but still... I wanted to go upstairs and curl up into a ball. Just cry and not be bothered by anyone. But then... Yeah, she'll be rushing home to make it better. Making excuses and lie after lie just flowing out of her. And I'm just supposed to stay here and wait for that? So that at the end of it all I'll just agree to believe her crap? Again?