Antonio never thought much about his wife's trips to the beach, every summer. When he was younger and she was in college, he'd even taken to going with her. Maria was a joy to be around, full of life and energy, even though she was nearly fifteen years his junior--his colleagues in the Economics department thought it a bit inappropriate, but everyone was in love with the spunky young Maria.
Dark hair, deep olive tones in her smooth skin, light eyes, and full lips to go with her very put together frame. The boys ever did drop their jaws at Maria, even though her attire was always more "long skirts and blouses" rather than the "hip-huggers and tight shirts" of the day.
She fell in love with him for his broad mind and aggressive nature, and he fell in love with her for her kindness and sexiness. It was a different relationship for both of them, but with her graduation and his retirement to part-time teaching while he wrote his book, their marriage was acceptable to her very conservative parents despite his being nearly forty at the time.
But though Maria enjoyed the classrooms where she taught (high school English), and was adventurous and full of spirit--their love life and home life was wrought with all the problems of a couple that had little in common. So, Maria would take to the beaches a few hours from their home in Georgia, and for a long time Antonio would join her.
While bronze and in great shape, Antonio never liked laying about half-naked and wouldn't have bothered, but Maria grew up near beaches and he was desperate those first few years to find something they could both enjoy. His stoic and methodical nature was in contrast to the freedoms of wind and air and sea and people--but she appreciated his trying.
It was in those moments, at the beach, that he remembered that his young wife was a beautiful woman. Though bookish any other day, Maria wore very revealing bathing suits--and moreso every year. So much so that Antonio had become protective of his bride--which disturbed him. He did not like the idea of containing or limiting her. He withheld nothing from her; she was his joy even if he had none himself.
Once, she'd gone so far--and this was years ago, perhaps the second or third trip to the beaches--as to remove her top and lay under the sun. Laying forward on the towels, her legs ran for miles... young men gawked shyly and older men gawked openly (as old men do) at her long and firm legs, those lightly muscled thighs, and her delicately covered ass only accidentally hidden beneath scraps of nylon tied at the hips.
Maria was a sight, voluptuous and firm, a tight waist accented by her most dazzling feature--large, soft breasts that spilled out under her, licking the towel and exciting the boys. Antonio had enjoyed them many times, but their love-life was more dutiful than exuberant and he always did feel as though she wasn't enjoying him enough. It led to a decline in their bedroom activities, except for those nights at the beach house. Only there did it seem she loved him physically as much as she loved him emotionally--and Antonio, with his powerful mind and practical sense, knew it was her exhibitionism that excited her more than her husband.
As the years moved along, and his writing became more full-time, he'd drifted from his wife. His family had always placed a high value on marriage, hers as well, and neither of them considered divorce--or ever would. They were partners, if not young romantics, and the business of their lives (and young son) was more important than the realization of some romance novel.
Theirs was a marriage like so many others. Divided by many things, but dedicated nonetheless.
Antonio aged well, and by the time he was nearly fifty, his grey-hair was more prominent than the black, his physique took on that lean and creased look that older men get when youthful muscle gives way to the years. He was fit, and a fine Italian gentleman, tall and broad shouldered--but nobody would mistake him for a young man now, as sometimes happened with Italian gentlemen.
Maria only grew more beautiful, at least in his eyes. She lost the firm muscle-tone of her twenties for a womanly softness of an active lady in her thirties. Where she'd once had sharp accents in her legs and tummy, she had a flat and smooth look to her--more in common with a model than a volley-ball player. She lamented not being as fit as she once was, but Antonio ignored her and encouraged her to do the same... she was a vision, and her insistence that she was part her prime always disappointed him.
So, as the years went by, and she took her summers to the beach, he thought nothing of it. It was a place of happiness for her, she could share the sun and surf with friends and let men gawk at her, and she could regain her confidence--which dwindled in the winter months. It was a cycle, and Antonio respected cycles.
So, when he finished his third book early in the year--and wanted to celebrate by going with her to the beach this time... he was surprised and unprepared for her response.
"No."
Her brow furrowed over their morning coffee, and she was short and adamant in her answer.
"Why not?"
He was unaccustomed to asking twice for anything, and desired reasons above all things. His curiosity would not surprise her. Not in the least.
"You don't like to go, and I won't have a bad vacation, Antonio--not this year. I need to get away for a bit, you know that." she was sincere and her eyes pleaded with him to understand.
But Antonio knew little of pleading, and respected it not at all... but he could deny her nothing, his wife. She was always his weakness and moments like this, moments that made him feel generous, were often successful ways of getting what she wanted.
"Hmmm.", he thought, "Yes. Yes, I see. You may go by yourself; I had only wanted to celebrate the book. But we can do as much when you return." Often, people thought Antonio to be rigid and robotic, his manner of speech always to the point and formed thoughtfully--Maria had loved that about him, because she knew it was only his way when others believed it intentional.
"Thank you, darling." she replied. Looking into her coffee, she felt guilty.
. . .. ... .....
Antonio could not say why he went along after her. Perhaps to surprise her, but that was not really his habit. Perhaps because he changed his mind, but he rarely ever did that either. Some would say he did it because he suspected, but even he and his ego would not admit to that--as he didn't suspect anything. He would move the wheels in his accomplished brain around over and over, trying to understand why he went... but the years never gave him any answers and the wheels did not produce certainty.
But, regardless, as he looked through the window of the beach house, and saw his wife in the arms of another man, he did what only Antonio Sparazza would have done in that situation.
He sat beneath the window, and thought about what he was seeing.
He was not a jealous man. Truly few men could compare to him. He was accomplished, handsome, intelligent, and interesting. So was it jealousy over this flawed creature with his wife? He'd seen the man for only a moment, and he was not impressed.
