I did not see that coming.
And because I didn't, my life as a happily-married man ended after 22 years, five months, six days and who gives a shit how many hours.
All because I wanted to order a fucking pizza, and was too lazy to walk into the kitchen to get my phone off the charger.
Surprisingly, my wife's phone was on the end table at the other end of our sofa. I say surprisingly, because it's a rare time when that thing isn't attached to her hand or stuffed into a pocket. Especially during these last few months, now that I think about it, when she's been leaving the room to text, not to mention to talk.
I heard the shower running upstairs, which I thought was odd for a late Saturday afternoon, but I really didn't give it a second thought when I grabbed her phone to place a carry-out order at our favorite pizza place. We hadn't discussed any plans for the evening, and with nothing already cooking in the kitchen, that usually meant a pizza for me and an order of Pasta Primavera for her. Except when I hit her home button to get into the phone, the damn thing asked me for a password.
I've got to admit, I looked at the phone like it had just cursed at me, and gave it a hard squeeze in retaliation. "Fuck you, iPhone," I thought before I immediately started wondering what the damn password would be. It was only as I was trying to guess that did the more important thought as to why it was locked smack me in the face. We'd had matching iPhones for years, and neither of us had ever locked them before. The last time I'd actually used her phone, maybe eight months ago, was to check on the weather, and it wasn't locked then.
I'm an amateur computer/phone geek, so I took the password request as a challenge. After a minute's thought, I punched in the last four numbers of her Social Security number, knowing that was the combination she had set for our home safe that had all our important papers in it, like our birth certificates and our passports. The phone opened up right away, showing her messages screen. I noticed her best friend, Jan Jefferson, was at the top of the list, meaning that Traci had texted her last before going up into the shower.
I probably shouldn't have peeked at the message tree, knowing it was a violation of her right to privacy, but then again, she was my wife, so I didn't think it was that big of a deal if I just peeked to see what she and Jan had been texting about. Could the price of an expensive pair of shoes really be that private?
Life-changer...
The pain I suddenly felt in my chest would have knocked me over had I been standing up. I started to suck in air like a man who was being suffocated. Things got squirrely; I wasn't sure if I passed out, but when I next felt lucid, I realized I had tears in my eyes and I couldn't focus.
Suffice it to say, I had found out why my wife was in the shower, and that her evening's planned activities with someone named Neville weren't their first go-round.
I read the entire conversation and had started to scroll through to see if there were others when I heard the shower end, so I closed out of the app, locked her phone and put it back exactly where it was when I picked it up. Feeling like somebody had just hit me in the stomach with a baseball bat, I flopped back down onto my end of the sofa, staring into... nothingness.
Sometime later, Traci came downstairs and walked into the family room. She was dressed nicely, but not over the top nice... a good touch, I thought to myself. I was pleased that I didn't jump up and choke the shit out of her. I decided to see where this was going to go.
"Hey, babe, I'm going to meet up with Jan and the girls tonight. You don't have a problem with that, do you?" she asked, innocence practically dripping off her every word.
I watched her carefully as she moved about the room. If she felt any guilt, I certainly couldn't see it. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!
"I'm good with that, sweetie. I'll just order a pizza and chill watching the Twins play the Rangers tonight," I answered, keeping my voice as neutral as I could. Two could play the acting game.
"By the way, you look good. I've always liked that blue dress on you. Maybe I should come along to fight off any guy who might get the wrong idea," I said.
She didn't realize I could see her grimace a bit when I said that. I knew the last thing she'd want tonight is my "vanilla" ass tagging along.
"I really do love him, Jan, but he's so... vanilla," she had texted her friend earlier. "Neville is anything but. I get wet just thinking about him."
She grabbed her phone from the end table and headed out the door, probably leaving quickly so I couldn't make good on my threat to go with her. I knew she was meeting Neville at the Red Lion for dinner before they headed back to his apartment for several hours of carnal pleasure. I wasn't serious about tagging along, but this vanilla guy was definitely going to make an appearance before the night was over.
Knowing I had some time to kill, I sat back on my sofa and reminisced about my marriage. Up until a little bit ago, I would have called our marriage just about perfect. I never had a clue that Traci thought I was boring in bed and was unhappy with my performance. I always made sure she was never left wanting, and if her screaming was any indication, I couldn't have been
too
boring in bed.
I had a lot of questions swirling around in my head, not the least of which was how long this affair had been going on. We had been married for 22 years, and just that fast I knew we weren't going to make the quarter-century mark.
By profession, I was a certified public accountant, and probably by temperament as well. I was analytical and quiet, not given to flights of fancy or anger, which may explain why my wife thinks I'm vanilla. Considering we've been married so long and raised two children, though, she's seen that I can be passionate in both life and in the bedroom. I was confused and hurt, and my anger was starting to heat up like a stone-hearth oven.
I knew my wife and her fucker had 6 PM reservations, so I pulled into the back of the Red Lion parking lot at 7 to watch the door. My game plan was to follow the two to Neville's home, since I had no idea who he was beyond his first name.
I remembered back to the first time I laid eyes on the woman who would become my wife. She was making ice cream sundaes at a Sunday social at my church, and I, along with several other guys, were immediately taken with the curvy brunette with green eyes. I had to wade through several other young guys to get a chance to talk with her that day, but it was well worth the wait. She was smart and well-spoken, in addition to being pretty.
I got her name and number that day, but didn't call her for two weeks. I figured that would give time for all the pretenders to get out of my way.
Our courtship was relatively quick. We dated for eight months before I asked her to marry me. We were married eight months after that. We had our son, Larry, two years after that, with our daughter, Delilah, coming along 18 months later.
Both kids were now in college, which, in hindsight, might have been the beginning of the end for my marriage. I noticed Traci seemed to be pulling away from me slightly, but when I tried to bounce her about it, she told me I was being paranoid. Paranoid, thy name is Daniel.
I was shocked when Traci came out of the restaurant about 7:20 followed closely by a tall, fit young guy who looked to be about 20 years younger than her 47. I really had no expectations as to what her lover would look like, but I certainly wasn't expecting a fucking kid. I suppose he was handsome, although I am hardly a good judge of the male of the species. He had a mop of curly brown hair. He looked to be about 30 pounds and three inches bigger than me. Considering he was fucking my wife, I wondered if his dick was bigger than mine as well.
I watched the two of them kiss before getting into his car and driving off. I followed them a decent distance behind, knowing that the last thing they were expecting was to be followed by me, in my vanilla car, of course.
They pulled up in front of an apartment building after a 15-minute drive and walked into the building, the bastard ushering my wife in with his arm around her waist. A minute later I saw a light go on in a third-floor apartment. Considering I knew that they had done this at least several times, I didn't feel the need to rush up there instantly. I wanted to give them a chance to get started, then put the kibosh to that.
I waited about 15 minutes, my anger rising with each minute, before I went to the apartment door I assumed was Neville's. That was confirmed by my wife shrieking out a loud orgasm, then crying out for more. What the fuck? I'm in the hallway hearing her screaming, when at home she acts like she's in a fucking church.
"Fuck me harder, Nev. Fuck me harder," she yelled.
My incessant banging on the door finally got a result as Neville, wrapped in a robe, answered the door looking none too happy. That made two of us and I hauled off and hit the big bastard square in the nose, staggering him backwards and causing blood to explode from his face, before my second shot hit him square in the chest, knocking him on his butt.
I stomped into the apartment past the prone bastard and headed toward where I figured the bedroom was, finding my apparently-naked wife cowering under the sheets. She had heard the quick altercation, but didn't know exactly what had happened and who it was at the door, so when I appeared in the bedroom doorway her eyes got as big as an owl's. Her mouth opened, but nothing came out.
"Don't come home. You don't live with me any longer," I yelled, spittle flying out of my mouth. "Call me in a few days and I'll let you come by and get your stuff."
She finally found her voice and answered back as I turned to leave.
"No. No. Wait. It's not..." she started, but then suddenly stopped. "I guess it is... But we need to talk."
"Truer words were never spoken, slut, but this is neither the time nor the place."
Lover-boy was stretched out on the floor moaning into his hands when I was about to walk past him. Still running on 100 percent adrenalin, I slammed my foot down on his unprotected mid-section, hearing what I assumed were ribs breaking. I walked through the door of his apartment without pulling it closed behind me, got into my car and drove home.
I suppose having rage and surprise on my side worked out well for me, because the last time I fought anybody was in sixth grade, and I got my ass kicked then. Neville was considerably larger than me, but I don't think it took me more than 10 seconds to put him on his back. Not bad for a vanilla guy, I thought as I pulled my car into my garage.
Still in somewhat of a rage, I grabbed a bottle of Jack Daniel's from my liquor cabinet and poured three fingers into a regular drinking glass, then went stomping about my house, destroying several knick-knacks Traci had bought by throwing them against the closest wall. I then grabbed my favorite knife from my bedroom end table and impaled it through our wedding photo in our bedroom. I might have done more damage but the doorbell ringing brought me back to reality.
I can't say I was surprised when I found two police officers on my doorstep. I opened the door and beckoned them inside. The first officer responded by waving me back, then with his hand resting on his gun walked in, followed by the second officer, also having his hand on his gun. I watched them both take a good look around at the debris I had left on the walls and floors from smashing knick-knacks.
The police told me they were responding to a complaint made by someone named Neville Douglass. It seemed Mr. Douglass had been attacked in his apartment and had suffered a broken nose and two broken ribs. Although Neville wasn't sure who the attacker was, the woman who was at the apartment with him confirmed to the cops that it was me, her husband. I thought it was rather nice of the cops not to call me her cuckold husband.
