by Sean Geist
“Sorry.” I kissed her goodbye then shuffled off back to bed. I tossed and turned for a bit, a cyclone of doubts swirled through my head, keeping sleep at bay. After an hour of torment I got up and made breakfast.
At the station, my work suffered. I was tire and preoccupied. My condition did not slip by Tim. “You been thinking 'bout what I said last night haven't you?”
I wanted to punch him, but realized he was telling the truth, not mocking me.
“Tim, my wife and I are doing fine.” I must not have sounded too convincing because Tim rolled his eyes and went back to planning his show.
The day ticked by. I made a few calls following up leads for a couple of the reporters. I must have checked the clock every ten minutes.
During the five o'clock news show, when I should have been watching our competition and seeing what stories they had, my mind was wandering through the foggy and unfamiliar territory of true doubt.
True, I had thought about my wife cheating on me, dreamed about it, and even teased her with it. But it had all been make-believe, just stories to add spice to our sex life. I never really thought Daphne would cheat on me – go behind my back to fuck someone else. I may have got hard with the fantasy, my cock shriveled up when I thought of my wife's phone call this morning. That was real.
By the time the show ended, I looked down at my notes and found a blank piece of paper.
“Shit.”
“What's wrong,” Tim said from his desk.
“I missed what the other stations had.”
Tim laughed. “Don't worry. I watched them. They don't have anything we don't.”
“Thanks.”
“You should take a few hours off, Rich.”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Yeah. If I'd known how you'd react, I'd have kept my mouth shut.”
I was about to tell him about the phone call when the rest of the crew started to fill back in from the set and control room, and I didn't want to get everyone involved in my love life and how fucked up I was – and over what? A tossed off observation about media marriages and an early morning phone call. It was probably all in my imagination anyway, but the effects my doubts had on my work were all too real.
I had a problem, I knew that, and the only way to solve it was to talk to Daphne, tell her my thoughts and hope she didn't get too upset. I knew she'd be disappointed with me questioning her commitment, but we'd get through that. I had to know if she was still happy with our life, and I needed to know why she was meeting Brad after work.
A smart man would have waited until the proper time to start asking those questions, but at the moment, the smart man in me was getting his ass kicked by the insecure boy. Instead of waiting until after work, or even better yet, the weekend – when we'd have all the time and privacy we needed to deal with my problems – I decided to meet Daphne at happy hour. It was a dumb idea, one I regretted the moment I walked into the bar.
The Royal Mail was a cozy pub near the university. Outside it looked like another strip mall establishment, but slip inside and you're transported across the pond to a London tavern with flags hanging from the dark wooden rafters: St. George's Cross, the Welsh Red Dragon and Scottish Saltine among them. A few tellies were strategically placed, showing a never ending stream of live and recorded football matches; you could call them soccer games once without getting thrown out, but not twice. And the aroma of shepherd's pie and warm beer greeted every customer. It was a great place to meet friends, grab a pint and chat the night away.
Daphne and I had eaten here a couple of times in the few years we'd lived in Des Moines, and I knew it was where the accounting department held their Thursday night get-togethers, so I figured I had the right place.
I was wrong. A quick scan of the bar took in a couple of women – maybe in their forties – shooting pool in the back, a young family – mom, day and two kids – eating dinner at one of the tables and three chaps at the bar watching a match. No Daphne, no chatty co-workers. No Brad.
It was after six, and I figured if this was where they were going to meet, they'd be here by now. I didn't know where else they could be so I did the right thing and decided to wait to talk with Daphne later, instead of calling her and asking where she was.
The more I thought about my marriage, the more I realized how stupid I was being. My wife had never given me any reason to doubt her, even when we played with the fantasy I always knew I was the one she loved and I was the one she was pleasing with our talk of Brad and his big cock.
I decided the best course of action was to have dinner and head back to the station to do my damn job. The waitress, a young student with dark brown skin, obviously working her way through college, escorted me to a table near the back and took my order, a bowl of Irish stew and a pint of Guinness.
While I was waiting for my meal I went to the restroom and splashed a little water on my face. All of a sudden the lack of sleep and relentless anxiety over my marriage had caught up with me. The man who looked back from the mirror had pinkish eyes with dark shadows underneath them. I was fighting to stay awake and regretted ordering the beer. I was encouraged only by the fact my shift was over in another four hours or so.
The haze I walked through, back to my table was instantly lifted when I saw Daphne sitting at the bar and a surge of adrenaline coursed through me. It turned out I did have the right place, just the wrong time. The bartender put a glass of beer in front of her.
A tough choice confronted me: have the talk with my wife now and sort things out or sneak out of the bar, pretend I was never here and have the conversation later. Since sneaking out would entail a lie of omission on my part, and Daphne was alone, I decided now would be as good a time as any to talk, and even is we didn't get everything ironed out, at least we could get started. Plus, having dinner with my wife was just what I needed to lift my sagging spirits.
What I had forgot was my wife was meeting someone. That realization came crashing down on me as I was about to grab my beer and my stew and head over to sit next to my wife because in walked Brad, in his blue jeans and a dark pink polo shirt, his light blond hair cut short, walking with a purpose up to my wife. It's a good thing I wasn't holding either the pint glass or the bowl of stew, because I would have dropped them. I was shocked, although I shouldn't have been. I knew she was meeting Brad here. I watched as my wife stood up and greeted her co-worker with a hug and a kiss. The kiss was quick, but the hug didn't end right away. They stood in a loose embrace, exchanging a few words, smiled and then, to my chagrin, kissed again.
This second kiss lingered. With the distance and the dim lighting I couldn't tell if any tongue was involved, but it might as well have.
My wife is cheating on me was my first thought. I felt sad and ashamed and humiliated. All this time I thought I was the only one for her, she was my soul-mate, the woman I wanted to have kids with, grow old with. I didn't understand what she saw in Brad. Yeah, they were both accountants, but other than that, from what little she'd talked about him, my wife and Brad had nothing in common. Unless she was lying about that as well.
The kiss continued and I felt like storming up to the bar and breaking them up, but I hesitated. I knew in that moment, if I walked over there, my marriage was over. I'd get mad and say something regrettable, maybe act childish and throw a punch.
I wasn't ready to end it. Deep down I held on to the insane glimmer of hope that all wasn't as it appeared to be, that there was a reasonable explanation why she was meeting Brad, alone – why she was kissing him. I didn't know what it could be, but I knew I wasn't going to find out right now with my emotions flaring: anger, jealousy, and—arousal? That last one threw me. I was getting an erection watching my wife make out with another man. It was so wrong, but I couldn't stop watching. I wanted – I needed – to see where this was going. I needed to know what happens next. At that moment, I saw Daphne as a woman, an individual, with her own feelings, strengths and weaknesses. She wasn't my wife, my lover or my par
tner. She was Daphne, a woman, a sexual being – beautiful in my eyes, desired by others.
She was playing a dangerous game. I wasn't going to remain her husband if she was cheating on me, no matter how much the thought excited me. And she wouldn't want to remain my wife if I treated her like a child or a prized possession. I couldn't tell her what to do, she would have to make her own decisions.
Eventually the couple's lips parted and my wife and Brad sat down at the bar. They talked for a while. Occasionally Daphne would laugh at something Brad said. He put his arm on her shoulder once or twice; she picked a bit of lint off his shirt. During all this my stew grew cold. It was painful to watch their interaction, they were comfortable together, like Daphne and I used to be, before our schedules got fucked up.
“Something wrong?” My waitress had noticed the food I had been ignoring.
“No. No. It's good.” I took a spoon full of gravy, beef and carrots and shoved it into my mouth. “Yum.”
She shook her her head and chuckled to herself as she wandered off to take care of other customers. Truth was, even at room temperature, the stew was still pretty good.
Daphne and Brad continued chatting and I continued watching and eating. Later tonight, my wife and I would have to talk, but right now I had to get back to work and help Tim get his show put together. I watched the bartender set another round of drinks down in front of them, so I figured my wife wasn't leaving anytime soon. I didn't want to create an awkward scene, getting caught spying, so instead of going out the front and possibly being seen, I slapped a twenty dollar bill down on the table to cover my check and slipped out a back exit.
I wasn't buzzed, but the beer had taken the edge off my emotions and I was able to get through the evening news without a nervous breakdown. The drive home was a little tougher. I knew we'd have to talk; I had to know what the fuck was going on. Was she having an affair? Was she planning on leaving me? I loved my wife and for all I knew she loved me. Yes we'd grown a little distant, but I didn't think we'd fallen so far that she'd run into the arms of another man.
As I approached the apartment complex the image of my wife, home, in our bed, naked and legs splayed wide, Brad, his pink polo shirt still on but his jeans down around his ankles, pounding away at her pussy flashed before my eyes. It was abrupt and I slammed on the brakes for no reason. Luckily no one was behind me or they'd have driven right into the trunk of my car. The vision was brief, but frightening, not because I really thought my wife was at home fucking her friend, but because I found the idea oddly arousing.
It was just before eleven when I entered the apartment and tossed my keys onto the kitchen counter. The darkness and near silence surrounded me, no sounds of hard sweaty bodies slapping together, just the ticking of the hallway clock and the hum of the refrigerator.
I made my way down the hall to the door to our bedroom. It was open. I looked in, but didn't enter. I saw Daphne lying on her back in the bed, a few beams of cold white light from a street lamp shone through the blinds, leaving a stripped pattern on the bed. My wife's head was in shadows but I could see her ample chest rising and falling under the covers.
Before I got home I had convinced myself the best thing to do was wake my wife and talk about what happened, but seeing her lying there, peacefully asleep, I found I lacked the desire to disturb her and get into a big row about our future. Maybe I was wrong and it could wait until the weekend.
Sleep wasn't going to come easy tonight so instead of tossing and turning and waking Daphne, I decided to sleep on the sofa.
“You gonna just stand there or come to bed?”
I jumped a bit. My wife hadn't been asleep.
“Sorry for waking you.”
“Wasn't asleep. You okay?”
“Just thought I'd sleep on the couch.”
“I smell bad or something?”
For all I knew she smelled of Guinness and Brad. “Something.”
“Rich, what is it?”
I didn't know what to say. My emotions were in turmoil, I'd decided to confront her, then put it off and now I didn't know what to do. While I stood there silently trying to answer that simple, yet complex question, Daphne sat up in the bed and turned on the lamp on her nightstand.
After my eyes readjusted to the light, I realized my wife was naked, at least from the waist up, I couldn't tell if she had anything on below because she was still half-covered by the bed linen.
She was a vision, her pale pink skin glistened in the warm lamp light, a tress of her long red hair hung down, covering one of her breasts; she was either cold, or aroused because the one nipple I could see was hard.
I wiped a bit of spit from the corner of my mouth with my hand. I could feel a tingle in my groin as blood rushed to my penis and I quickly moved to adjust my growing erection.
Daphne raised her right eyebrow.
“What?”
“You gonna just stare at me or tell me what's wrong?”
“What makes you think something's wrong?”
“You'd rather sleep on the couch than with your wife.”
“Oh. That.” I was stumbling for something to say. How does one start a conversation like this? It was always easy before, teasing each other about 'the other man' when we – or at least I – knew it was all just in our imagination. Now was different.
Looking into Daphne's hazel eyes, I couldn't be mad, she was beautiful and I loved her. If I stared at her body I was distracted by lust, into her eyes by her knowing gaze, into the wall above her head by the image of her fucking Brad. I was a mess.
I opened my lips to speak, but nothing came out, so I closed them again.
“Let's start simple. Did the show go well?”
“Yeah, I guess. Went as well as expected.” Just words, meaning nothing, like weather talk.
“Anything interesting happen today?” Her words slapped me in the gut, driving the wind from me. Yes something interesting happened, I just didn't know how to bring it up. All the arguments I had devised to protect my pride dissipated like a wall of sand against the ocean wave. I stood there emotionally naked, aroused and afraid of what to say next. I wanted Daphne to go first, confess her transgression and explain herself. What I didn't want to do was admit I had spied on her. Despite the fact I was right and she did seem to be cheating on me, I was the one who doubted her first.
So I stood there silent, my mind racing. Daphne, for her part, held a stone cold expression on her face, no hint of what was passing through her mind.
Finally, out of frustration, I broke. “What do you want me to say?”
“What do you want to tell me.”
I laughed. “You asked first.”
“I'm just wondering if anything is wrong. Why you didn't come to bed like you usually do.”
“How do you know what I usually do. You're always asleep when I get home.”
Daphne smiled. “Not always.”
“So, you pretend to sleep. To see what I do when I think you're not aware?”
“Like you did tonight.”
“Wha—”
“Tonight. At the bar.”
“You saw me. I never noticed you looking my way.”
“So you admit it.” Daphne's breasts jiggled as she pointed an accusatory finger at me. “You were spying on me.”
“How—”
“I thought I saw you when I came in. You had your back to me, heading to the restroom probably, but I recognized your curly brown hair and that blue and white paisley shirt.”
I was confused now. What exactly had gone on between her and Brad? “If you knew I was there.”
“Why'd I kiss Brad?”
My mouth hung open and I mumbled a few odd syllables as my vocabulary temporarily escaped me.
“Why do you think?”
“Uh.”
“You really think I was cheating on you?”
I hung my head low, unable to look my wife in the eye. “Yes.” It was really more of a whisper, nothing I was proud to proclaim.
“I was teasing you, silly.”
I gave a sigh, as the weight of pain and humiliation was lifted.
“I was waiting for you to come over and say something. But you never did, so I kept on flirting. I figured you like watching.”
I still wasn't sure I believed everything she was saying. “Why were you meeting Brad? You told me this morning it was a girl's night out.”
“No. I said I was meeting a co-worker.”
“Still doesn't answer the why.”
“He's having some issues with his boss, and we're close, so I was there to help him out, listen to him and give him some advise.”
I was feeling kind of stupid, but still annoyed. “You always kiss him, when you meet up.”
“No.” Then Daphne chuckled. “But I might start. He's a good kisser.”
“Daph!”
My wife was staring into the middle distance, reminiscing the encounter.
“Maybe, I'll even let him feel me up.”
My cock twitched as my wife talked. I hadn't noticed I'd become turgid.
“Come here and let me take care of that.” Daphne reached out to me.
“I should be mad at you. For kissing another man.”
“You could have stopped me. One word. I'm the one who should be mad. At you, for spying on me.”
I had nothing to say.
“No come over here. I need some lovin'. I'm horny and it's been, like what? Three weeks since we've made love.”
“Twenty-five days.” I took off my shirt and threw it on the floor.
“So did you enjoy it?”
“What? The three weeks since we've had sex?”
“Funny. No, the show I put on?”
“Not really. I was more hurt.”
“Oh, poor dear. I'm sorry.”
I lowered by pants and kicked them off. I now stood at the side of the bed with my erection straining against my boxers.
“Our little discussion seems to have gotten you excited.”
“That and a beautiful naked woman in my bed.”
Daphne released my cock from its confinement and slowly began to stroke it. “You have a beautiful woman in your bed every night.”
