Traci Hears the Future

"I fucking knew it," I sighed quietly to myself as I raised my phone to memorialize the occasion, before quietly walking away. I'd expected to catch her in a lie, not the act. There was no coming back from this, not now. We weren't going to survive this.

Traci. Nominative determinism at its finest. I should have known better than to marry a blonde whose name ended in an 'i.' Folks who give their children stripper names aren't in the business of imparting sturdy moral world views.

She arrived home more than an hour after I did, and gave her usual cheerful "Hiyaa!" as she bounced through the door like butter wouldn't melt. I was half-watching one of those also-ran gameshows which feature about as much skill as a game of snakes and ladders as I stewed in my own thoughts. I didn't acknowledge her, and she didn't notice. Lost in her own world of dumbassery, as had become normal in recent weeks.

As the gameshow host babbled about the amazing prize on offer in the background, I distantly heard her dump her purse on the kitchen counter with a careless thud.

One month. I had to give it to the bastard, he worked fast. By my estimation, she'd made it less than four weeks before giving it all up to him. I'd watched in the background, first with concern, then fury, then finally resignation, curious as to how things would play out, before I got sick of waiting for the other shoe to drop. This was the week I'd decided it was time to both get some personal closure before pulling back the final curtain on the whole stupid charade, just short of her being two months into her new job.

I'd laughingly joked about it with her when she took the position. The old stereotype of secretaries fucking their bosses - working as a paralegal in a mid-sized law firm meant that there was the possibility for watching office shenanigans to play out, and we'd laughed about people screwing each other behind closed doors. I'd made her promise to keep me up to date with the office gossip, although I'd originally intended it as a way to keep connected with her.

I put on my game-face. Time for my experience in business-to-business sales to pay off: never challenge their beliefs and preconceptions. Some drunk executive starts prattling on about banging his wife's sister? You come back with a 'You dirty dog, you!' or similar. They blurt out shockingly racist, sexist or homophobic gibberish? Don't even blink. Smile, nod, change the subject.

"Any more gossip at the office recently?" I asked loudly, with my head turned toward the kitchen.

"Nah, well, not that I know of, anyway," Traci replied, wandering into the lounge. "It's mostly paperwork, meetings, and research, not non-stop Mexican telenovela action."

"Oh, come on. I know you've only been there, what, seven weeks now? But there's a steep power gradient in that office. Dumbass secretaries sleeping with their married bosses is a stereotype for a reason," I stated, noticing a slight hitch in her movement when I said it before I pivoted to disarm her. "What about that girl, what's her name, Stephanie, didn't you say it looked like she was up to something with one of the junior partners?"

"Nope, turns out it was nothing," she replied, flumping down onto the other end of the couch in her white blouse and pencil skirt and stretching out her stockinged feet. "Or if it is, it's on the super down-low. Turns out she's got a boyfriend. Doesn't shut up about him. She wuuuuuvs him."

I glanced over at her with a raised eyebrow. The blouse was a little translucent, form-fitting, and a little low-cut for office wear. That'd started two weeks in. I'd noticed her outfits got a lot more 'booby' around that time. That, and a transition from flats to heels and a slightly raised hemline. In hindsight, it was obvious but initially, I'd figured she'd just relaxed into the dresscode a little after getting used to the vibe. That's normal when starting a new job. It's better to be over-formal initially and adjust to the vibe, rather than to underdress and set a bad impression.

"Eh, Well. It's probably for the best," I said after a moment, adding "there's a reason they say you shouldn't shit where you eat, after all. It's a shame for you and me, though."

"What do you mean?" she asked with a smirk.

"About what? The shitting thing, or the shame?" I asked, watching her frown out of the corner of my eye.

"Well...both, I guess?"

I had her. Time to turn the screw.

"Well, it's a nice little self-sabotaging trap, isn't it? But on the other hand, it'd be fun to watch it happen to some dumb, gullible bitch from a safe distance, or in my case, hear about it. In a dark way, anyway. Listen to it play out in real time, get out the office-affair bingo card, and all that."

"A trap?" she echoed.

I nodded, still pretending to stare at the TV. "Oh yeah. A real nasty one. The boss lays it on thick with the pickup artist moves. Peacocking and talking himself up, complimenting the dumb girl and carefully invading her personal space. Maybe some 'getting-to-know-you' after-hours drinks, talk some shit about her current partner, and suddenly he's balls deep in her, and he owns her. It's a deal with the devil."

"I don't see how that means 'he owns her.'" Trace said with a quiet but hard tone, "It just sounds like a run of the mill office fling. "

"Well, think about it. I mean, take that boss of yours, the senior partner. James something?"

There was an awkward pause before she eventually replied "McMasters," as if she'd mysteriously forgotten her bosses surname.

"Okay, well you said old Jimmy's married, with kids, right? So if he was baiting the trap, he'd probably say how the marriage is on the rocks. Talk about his shrewish, nagging wife who doesn't appreciate him," I said, wagging my finger in a pantomime of a angry housewife. "All lies of course. He'll never leave her, he's just trying to get into some naive sluts' panties." I said pointedly, taking a swing at some of the lines he'd likely used. Based on the way she awkwardly tensed up in my peripheral vision, it was a solid hit.

"Theoretically, I mean" I added. "I know you'd be telling me all about his awful home life if he was trying that line on you, after all my requests for hot gossip," I paused, her silence speaking volumes. "I mean, that's why I keep asking about it. My work is a frat-bro sausage party. Half the guys spend their spare time hitting on our middle-aged receptionist Olivia, apart from the few brave, deluded fools who go to bat for the bosses' wife. They're always bragging about this tacky shit to me. It's all beer, babes, and sports. I'm sick of it."

"Yeah, you've said" she added dismissively, having a second-hand reaction to the crap I hear everyday. "I'd hate it there."

"But it does mean I've had a masterclass in scumbag pussyhound tactics," I grinned at her, "Anyway, where was I? Oh, yeah. Once she's spreading her legs for him, what happens next? She's a liability, a danger to both his job and his marriage. There's no way a smart lawyer like him wouldn't cover his bases. He'd either forge some paperwork documenting poor performance, or actually, yeah, probably he'd just overtly do it. Tell the poor gullible floozy about needing to maintain appearances, to be seen not to be playing favorites, and have her sign the write-up and bang her in the same damn meeting."

I saw her flinch slighly beside me. Another palpable hit. How much of a dumb bitch could she be? Well, horny and dumb famously go hand-in-hand, I guess.

She eventually said "That sounds... a bit far fetched. Yeah, machiavellian. Anyway, work and play are two different things. Why would he bother?"

"Ah, but don't you see, that means he can sack her for cause, throw her out on her ass at a moments notice, and no one will question it! Now she's just a disaffected employee spreading lies to cause trouble. The second she tries to end it, what do you think happens?"

"I don't know. It seems a bit ridiculous. I don't think anyone's that calculating and cynical."

"A senior partner, not calculating and cynical? How do you think you make senior partner, honest work and stick-to-it-iveness? It's all politics and backstabbing at the top of the heap, but if you don't want to believe that, that's okay. Anyway, one of three things happens."

"One" I announced, looking her in the eye and raising my index finger, "Fired with no reference and a dark cloud over her, career over."

"Two" I raised a second finger, "She rides it out, while he rides her. He gets bored of her, then bam! Fired for cause again."

"Finally, three," I raised the last one with an evil grin, "She wises up and assumes the missionary position for him, while applying for positions elsewhere. One way or another, she's either an unwilling sex slave or a failure. Screwed, literally or metaphorically."

"Hmph," was all she had to say to that uncomfortable truth.

"So yeah, it's dark, but that's the reality, and that's why all the big companies have anti-fraternisation policies these days. Heck, that's why the military's so hard on infidelity, too. Although I hear some folks are into it. It's a BDSM thing called 'power play' if I remember correctly."

"Well," she said after a long pause, her voice barely above a whisper. "Like I told you, there's nothing like that going on."

I gave a short chuckle, finally adding "And like I said, it's a shame. It'd be kind of funny to hear about the details second-hand. What was it you said? Oh yeah, telenovela-like. I'm starved for drama."

I left it at that, for the time being. A ugly little lump of raw, awful truth for her to digest while I thought about the next step.

That night, we both lay in bed with our backs toward each other, miles apart. Anger and hate were radiating from me, and I'm surprised she couldn't feel it; I could certainly feel her newfound guilt and uncertainty. Sleep came slowly, and I could tell the same was true for her and I think she spent a long time staring at the darkness that night, trapped by her own choices. She didn't know it then, but it was her last chance. Just one well-chosen word might have been enough: something with remorse, regret, or even an expression of love. An expression of contrition, something tangible. But no, she said nothing.

I knew by the morning she'd manage to minimize what I'd said, because the alternative was too real and too horrifying, but I also knew it'd take the shine off the sneaking around, and based on her earlier reactions, the potential outcomes I'd predicted would haunt her. She'd be left with the foolish idea that she had some decisions to make.

The following day's outfit was a lot less 'booby.' Much too little, and far too late, my love. That's just playing hard-to-get. You'll convince yourself it worked and be back at it in a day or so. Heck, he'll probably enjoy seducing you into resuming the affair, but he won't have to try very hard. I went along with her charade, and returned to acting the part of the loving, oblivious husband, but within two hours I was ringing a doorbell, envelope in hand. A decidedly attractive and unshrewish woman answered the door, with a "Yes?" to my "Mrs Weston?"

I said "Looks like your husband's going to have to fire his assistant again, I'm afraid," as I handed the envelope to her, adding "I don't know how you put up with it" before saying Good day, ma'am," turning around, and leaving.

There's no kind way to do these things, and she's not my concern. It was cruel, but I'm pretty sure the poor, slack-jawed woman knew what I was implying, because her expression had hardened after a moment as her hand tightened on the paper. The last part in particular was another educated guess, but he was too quick and smooth for it to be the first time. He probably had Traci pencilled in for cock-warming duties from her very first interview.

When I glanced over before starting my car, she'd taken the picture out and was looking down at it with a dark expression. Seeing her loving husband bending my loving wife over his desk from behind with her skirt around her waist will do that to a person.

Traci came home early that afternoon, and she looked decidedly unhappy. I wasn't there, of course, why would I be? We didn't have kids, our finances were separate, and the apartment was month-to-month. I'd spent a couple of hours packing up the remains of my life and loading it into my car. By the time I got the alert on my phone, I was already sat in Davey's kitchen, bitching to his heavily pregnant wife Alyssa about my soon-to-be ex. They'd said I could crash on an air mattress in their nursery for a month or two. There was a pretty obvious hard deadline on that, but I was very grateful for their charity and it would be enough.

We watched her little walk of shame together my phone when I got the notification from our door camera. Traci had wanted one of those 'smart' security systems marketed through paranoia disguised as convenience, but I hadn't cared enough to argue about it. I have to admit that it earned it's keep that day. She sat in the driveway for a full five minutes before climbing out of the car. When she finally did, she moved slowly, her shoulders hunched and head hanging low, shuffling to the front door like a guilty drunk. She stopped there for a while too, before fishing the key out of her purse. I think she might have been expecting an 'I told you so' welcome on the other side; She certainly must have had her doubts when she left for work, so she surely knew I was aware of what she'd been up to by the time she entered the house. After that, she didn't look surprised as she passed into the lounge and walked up to the photo taped to the wall. She just stood and looked blankly at it, before eventually shuffling away. Alyssa cackled like a witch through the whole thing, along with a mocking running commentary, which made me feel a tiny bit better. It was obvious how things had approximately played out, and I felt a little twinge of smug satisfaction about my act of prognostication the night before.

I never found out how things played out for Weston and his poor wife, because I never asked. I didn't care. Why should I? He wasn't the one I was married to, that was Mrs Weston's cross to bear.

I got myself a new place fairly quickly and furnished it to the single lonely bachelor aesthetic just as fast; the secret is low standards. Buried myself in my work. Pestered my friends to hang out more than normal. All the usual stuff. I still ended up missing her in the small hours of the night, when sleep escaped me, but in the light of day, I always recognised that I'd given it my best, and spent more time and effort on her than I should have. I'm sure I have my failings as a partner, but I didn't deserve what I got in return. At least I'd managed to escape with some tattered remnants of my pride and self-respect intact.

I did eventually have a sit-down conversation with her after about a month, but it wasn't for her sake, or for mine. I'm of the opinion that closure is for grieving relatives, not cheating whores, so it was appropriate in a way; I did it for her parents, my father and mother in law. They'd always been kind to me, and although she hadn't told them exactly what happened, they'd both quickly joined the dots between her losing both her husband and her job on the same day and had decided they didn't need any more information, but they wanted me to talk to her face-to-face and at least end it properly. Get her to move on. I was still hurting, but I agreed for their sake.

At their place, her dad greeted me warmly but sadly at the front door, and escorted me through to their dining room before making himself scarce. She looked defeated. A sallow complexion, baggy sweats and t-shirt, and a sad frown. We sat across from each other at the table in silence for a long time before she eventually started.

"It happened nearly the way you said it would," she said, never raising her gaze from her hands, splayed on the wooden tabletop. "I've fucked it all up, haven't I."

"You think!" I snapped, before getting a grip on myself and starting again. "Look, the second you put his dick inside of you, we were over. You must have known that."

She tried to defend herself, but even after a month, the best she had was "I didn't! I mean...I didn't want..."

"Oh please," I interrupted, more calmly than she deserved. "Don't. Do us both a favor and don't make excuses. A part of you had to have known. You dropped your panties so quick, it was like you were doing the one hundred cock sprint at the sex olympics. Your poor lonely little Jim-Jim talked his way in so fast I'm surprised he had time to get it up." I shook my head. "Anyway, you only made it what, three, four weeks without getting caught because I thought we were stronger than that. I had more confidence in 'us' than I should have. You might as well have been texting me the photos yourself, it was so obvious. You're terrible at being a cheating... well, being a cheater. You've got too many tells. You should stick to being honest."

"I thought we were stronger than that too. It was just something... something exciting. Things got out of hand, and I..."

"I was kind to you, you know," I interrupted. "I had plans. Workable revenge fantasies. I could have made the end a lot more 'exciting' than it was. I even seriously thought about sabotaging your birth control. I had it in my hands..." her eyes went wide at the idea, "Your sex drive at home fell off a cliff pretty quickly, so I figured you wouldn't even notice if I played the happy celibate roommate for a few months. Have the divorce papers served in the maternity ward. But instead, right up until the end, even though I hated you for what you were doing to me, to us, I was giving you a way out."

All she said was "I was going to end it."

"No, you weren't," I said with a hard tone, "Maybe that's what you told yourself, probably a few times, but it's a lie."

"No, I really was. I knew it was wrong, and I really did know what I was doing was bad," she said, looking up at me with sad, narrowed eyes.

"I saw you. That wasn't an 'ending it' face you had on when he was slamming against you in his office. I already figured out you were fucking him, but when I saw it... I had just wanted to catch you in a big lie, something concrete I could point to. I didn't actually expect to see what I saw."

"I, I'm sorry you saw that," she looked away, "It was just physical. Please, at least know that."

"That's another one of those...untruths people tell themselves. If it was just physical, then you'd have been cheating on me with a dildo. How did it feel to have a spicy little secret? To think have something over me? Thinking 'he doesn't know' and look at me while you could still feel him in you? Knowing you know something I don't?"

Her eyes widened, and I think she recognised a nasty piece of herself she hadn't quite seen before.

"Well, I was still trying to give you a chance, even after knowing all that," I said. "Even after I said how it would play out. I know that rattled you, if you'd owned up to it right then and there, thrown yourself at my mercy... I would have been willing to try. You knew then, really, didn't you. But it would have been a hail mary at that point. I don't think I could have by then, even if I wanted to. Not after seeing it."

"Is there really not any chance...?" she asked with a pleading look. Honestly, there wasn't any real hope in her eyes, but I think she needed to ask, just to be sure.

"No," I said sadly.

"...okay," was her only reply, as she hung her head again. After a moment, she half-mumbled toward the floor, "I had to ask. I am sorry, you know. Sorry about the whole thing, every second. I don't know what was going on with me then. It was like I went insane, like I was trapped in a different reality. But I want you to know I'm sorry." She looked up at me then, with wide, anguished eyes, and said "I know it doesn't mean anything, 'cause I can't take it back, but I'm sorry."