AUTHORS NOTE: This story contains scenes of extramarital, unprotected and unapologetic sex. If you object, please feel free to move on.
I came awake early Monday morning and made an instant decision to get up and get out before she woke. I didn't want to see her, didn't want to talk to her; I couldn't, not now, so soon. I slipped from the bed carefully, avoiding looking at her naked form stretched out where she slept. I needed to get away from her, to clear my head, and get my thoughts and feeling under control. I needed separation. I skipped my morning workout and headed straight for the shower, but as I showered, images of the previous night flooded my brain, unbidden and unstoppable, impossible to ignore. I snuck my clothes from the bedroom silently and dressed downstairs, skipping coffee and breakfast, the urgent need to get out driving me almost to desperation. Every room showed the remnants of last night's party; the plates and cups, napkins and food left out. I saw her in my mind's eye, my sleeping, naked wife, the final remnant of last night's party. I winced and headed for the door.
But as I grabbed my briefcase in the hallway she was there, looking sleepy and worn, pillow creases still on her cheek, her blonde wavy hair hanging in a tangled mess past her shoulders, framing her face like a glowing vandalized halo. God, she was beautiful, and I hesitated as she stepped into the doorway, blocking my exit.
"I heard you get up," she said, rubbing the sleep from her eyes and stifling a yawn. She looked up at me, her bare feet holding her to her true height of five-two. She held her robe closed with one hand, and I assumed she was still naked underneath. "I wanted to see you before you left."
I stood there frozen to the spot, terrified and enraged, and said nothing for fear of losing control. "You're going in early?" Her voice was soft, just short of tentative. Was she pretending nothing had happened? Or was she afraid of me, of my reaction? We had not spoken last night, and I was not ready today. The tension was thick between us.
"I have a lot to do today," I lied. She stepped into me, her body lightly pressing against me, and I involuntarily took a step back. Her hands reached for my arms, releasing her robe, and it opened to give me a flash of her bare skin as she pressed to me. That body. Last night, that wonderful, sexy body; my wife's body. Memories struck me like a mallet, and I felt my body go rigid as she touched my arms and closed the gap to me.
She lifted her face to me and stood on her toes, and brushed her lips on mine for a kiss. I felt her light touch on mine, but all I could think of was her mouth, last night. "I love you," she said softly, and settled back down, but still looking up, watching me. "I wanted you to know that before you left." Was she seeing my confusion, feeling my resistance? Was she as scared as I was? "We'll talk tonight," she almost whispered, "when you get home." She stepped away, allowing me to pass. I couldn't look at her as I moved for the door. "I love you," she called to me, a little louder as I exited the house.
Work was a shapeless fog of movement and words layered over flashbacks of image and sound; I couldn't concentrate, I pretended to work and got little done, avoiding the eyes and attention of the office staff. Could they see the memories of the previous night bombarded my brain, distracting me from my duties? I answered email robotically and cancelled two appointments; unable to focus. I skipped lunch. My imagined rehearsales of tonight's conversation ranged from screaming rage and slaps to weeping confessions, filled with remorse. I considered not going home, avoiding the inevitable conversation, but late that afternoon I found myself behind the wheel, still in my trance, driving as if on auto-pilot.
In the driveway I sat in the car for what felt like hours, and thought of her, my wonderful, lovely wife, remembering our twelve years together, the dating, the love, the hurtful yearnings, the desperate aches when we were apart; our wedding, our vows. She was The One, and our years together had been almost unbroken bliss. Seeing her every day was a reminder of all that I loved in her, and feeling her love returned. But images of her face and memories of her love for me shining in her eyes were suddenly swept away by images from last night, that alien look in her eyes; her lips, her body, her voice, saying things I had never heard, doing ... things. I felt the tension creep into me, but my body was exhausted from the strain of the night and day; rage eluded me, and all I could manage was a worn resignation.
She was in the kitchen when I went inside, sitting at the table with a cup of tea, and she looked up at me as I entered but I tore my eyes away, avoiding the familiar connection that lured me to her. The smells of dinner filled the house, and I glanced around, seeing the rooms; neat and in order, all signs of the party the night before eliminated. But the normalcy of the surroundings served only to accentuate all that had changed between us. My brain rebelled at the welcoming scents and images of home, and family, of life before last night.
I set my bag on the floor, but remained standing, away from her, not approaching. Not the usual routine. My eyes returned to her but I couldn't meet her gaze. She was dressed in her casual clothes, jeans and floral print buttoned shirt, her breasts straining as always to be contained. Her face no longer held the puffiness of sleep, and her light makeup created the angelic visage I loved, her hair brushed and neat. I tore my eyes away as images of her unkempt hair and smeared makeup last night clouded my eyes, superimposed over her, possessing my vision.
"I wasn't sure I would see you," she said softly. The house was quiet, no soft jazz that she loved so much playing in the background the way it normally would. "I thought you might not come home."
"I considered it," I responded tersely.
"Please, sit," she said, anxiously fingering the mug of tea on the table in front of her. "You're making me nervous. More nervous."
I stiffened and rebelled internally, not wanting to do what she asked, not wanting it to be her way, to give her even that small victory. But this was OUR house, not just hers; it was ours, together, the house of love we shared, as much mine as hers. I felt my body move to a chair next to hers, then pulled away, and sat instead in the chair on the other side of the table, away from her, facing her across the table with a feeling of childish pride in the small victory of doing something differently, of avoiding her proximity.
"Dinner will be ready soon," she said, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. "We can eat first, and talk later, if you want." She paused, waiting for a response. "Or we can talk now." Another pause, and she added, as if it was news, "We have to talk about it."
"I'm not hungry," I lied. Her eyes flashed a moment of hurt, and she looked down into her tea. "I'm not sure I can eat." I wasn't sure I could even stay in the room. I sat with my back straight and clasped my hands on the table in front of me. "I'll take a cup of tea," I blurted, unsure why I said it. I watched silently as she rose and went to the counter, pulling a second cup down from the cabinet, preparing my tea. I watched her while she couldn't see me, looking at her ass and legs, her back, but again the memories of last night invaded, and instead of seeing her standing, dressed, I saw flashes of her, naked, her ass, her legs. Last night.
She put the steaming cup in front of me and thankfully returned to her seat across the table, not trying to invade my barrier. I wrapped my fingers around it, feeling the heat seep into my skin, grateful for the sensation, of feeling something recognizable and normal. The tension in me settled, just a little, from the small sensation of the warm mug. I didn't drink it; I just held it in my hands, clasping it tightly, as if it was the anchor that that would hold me together. I sat silently, staring at the steam rising from the mug and realized I was holding my breath. I stilled my heart and heaved a deep sigh, feeling a little more of the tension slip.
"Please, Carl, say something."
I looked up at her and met her eyes. Her forehead was creased with concern, her eyes searing mine with longing, almost despair. As I had in the car, I suddenly saw our lives together as it had been before, remembering all we had done and shared, and I felt my love for her, now bruised and battered, floating to the surface. My heart stirred in my chest and her expression pulled my emotions into focus; I felt my love for her as it had always been; the need for her, the incomplete feeling when we were not together, my desire to be with her, only her. But my memories betrayed me again, as vivid flashes of last night crossed my mind, crowding out the love, trying to crush it, destroy it. Her. My Wife. Last night.
"I'm not sure I even know who you are," I said quietly, and felt a moment of delight for the hurt that flashed in her expression.
"Oh, Carl," she replied timidly, but I interrupted her.
"No, seriously," I said, a little louder and too sternly, and she started, her eyes opening wider at the increase in volume. I heard my own voice violate the silence. "Who are you? Are you the woman I married, the one I fell in love with, and promised to stay with, forever? Through sickness and health? Is that you?" I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the table, still holding the mug, securing my position. "Or are you that ... that THING, that woman last night, that..."
Of all the imagined conversations I had held in my head during the day, none of them had gone like this. In my head I had scored great verbal victories, piercing her with words until she cried and begged, or I had lashed out, angrily, until she cowered and cringed. In none of those did I struggle, or feel confusion or hesitance. In none of them was I torn in two directions, unsure of my future with her. In none did I struggle with my emotions, pulled in two directions at once. But reality is different, and I felt my hesitation and despised it, and berated myself for my lack of conviction.
"Thing? Is that what you saw last night? A thing?" There was hurt in her voice, a little admonition for my invective. My heart stirred, wanting to hurt her and protect her at the same time, shamed at my desire to lash out, and elated that I could injure her, to make her share my pain.
"No. Not a thing," I clarified. I stared into her wounded eyes, those wonderful, round blue eyes, and remembered them on our wedding day, lifting her veil, seeing the longing and fulfillment in them, falling into them, overwhelmed with my love for her. "A slut. Last night I saw a filthy slut fuck two guys in front of her husband, who she now claims she loves."
There. It was out there now, the words spoken and clear, and unable to be recalled. I sat back, thrilled and horrified at my victory, and waited for her crushed remorse. I watched her as she lowered her head again, hanging it down, her shining blonde locks covering her face, hiding it from me. "I know," I heard her say softly, wounded. Her head stayed down, unable to meet my eyes. But when she raised her head again her face was steel and expressionless, and I instantly doubted my success. Her lips were tight with resolve.
"Let me say this one more time," she insisted. "I DO love you, you ass. You think because of what I did I stopped loving you?"
"How am I supposed to know now?" I yelled at her, lunging forward and slamming my palms flat on the table. "What the hell am I supposed to believe? That you've been faithful? That you love only me?" I was spitting with rage as the words erupted from me. "For all I know you've been fucking whoring around the whole time!" I was shaking, gasping for breath, and I tried to control my adrenaline, wrapping my hands back around the mug of tea, feeling the heat, feeling my anchor, settling my nerves.
