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Tribute Tales: I Screamed...

By: SirThopas



I Screamed at the Top of His Lungs

This story is something of a tribute to an author error. Slirpuff has a story that features several accidental jumps from first person to third, but the most dramatic of them is the phrase "I screamed at the top of his lungs." In my first week or two of exploring this site, I caught that phrase (or it caught me) and I couldn't really get rid of it. It seemed to go a long ways towards explaining the intensity and ferocity with which some people defend the Loving Wives ground against reconciliation or forgiveness stories. It also seemed to define for me why some people need to read that same vilified happy ending. Lastly, I thought, maybe it said something about why anybody reads this stuff in the first place. 

So now I'll scream.

I remember letting out a great, ragged sigh and pressing my palm to the middle of my chest. 

My heart was setting a runner's pace. No matter how much air I expelled from my lungs, there still seemed more left asking for release. It was as if my very soul were abandoning me, leaving nothing but a collection of tissues that, for no reason other than that they couldn't see a reason not to, continued to perform their respective duties. That breath went on forever.

It's the most vivid memory I have of the moment that I discovered that my wife was cheating on me. It's also the only tactile one. 

It was 11:14 on a Tuesday morning...a time which should, by all accounts, be about as insignificant as they come. The sky was an expressionless gray, the few inches of snow that hadn't melted yet turning hard and shiny by the sudden return of winter. Believe it or not, I had been sent home early because of pink eye. It was going around the school system, they told me, and a few days prior one of the women in my department had picked it up from her daughter. Apparently, I must have hit the vending machine or the coffee pot after her and gotten in on the deal, because I awoke with some mild itchiness and hadn't been at work more than two hours before it became obvious that something was wrong. By 10:30 it was plain to anybody who looked at me: conjunctivitis. 

I was going to hit the Express Care, but decided to run home and grab a book first. Any trip to the Express was sure to last an hour or two...the people who worked there went about their work in angry defiance of the name...and I didn't want to be stuck spending that time watching Fox News or whatever they had on. And if it struck me as a little bit odd that my wife's car was in the garage when she ought to have been at work, it was downright alarming to hear the sounds of Schubert's Piano Trio No. 1 playing when I opened the door into the house. We have a multiroom audio system, and my wife has a liking for playing classical music radio when we make love. Neither of us is a classical music fan. I just think she likes to have music playing to mask the sounds a bit, and the classical music both feels more romantic and is easier to tune out than pop radio.

The thing is, though, that we never, ever put that radio station on unless we're making love.

I almost called out her name, but decided against it. Looking down, I saw her work slippers sitting next to a pair of dressy men's shoes. Hers were small and light blue. His were large and well-cared for. My entire perception of my wife and of my marriage began to twist and crumple. At this point, as I began making my way quickly but quietly into the house, I began to unknowingly hold my breath. I only realized what I was doing when I reached the bedroom and looked in on the two of them. I immediately released that previously mentioned sigh and pushed my palm to my chest. Few moments in our lifetimes can be worse than that single moment when one discovers betrayal by a loved one. It feels like a small part of our own death has been visited upon us, too early. In fact, lot of my life ended at that moment. The sixteen years that I'd loved her, which had previously been the best of my life, died first. Seen in the same light which illuminated the way her hands clung to his back, they looked like nothing more than sixteen long lies that she'd told me in incremental, mocking detail. The future that we would share together went next. The experiences we would share and the people we would become were murdered, their corpses burnt by the frictive heat of his pumping into her. In an instant, I was redefined. Whatever I would be, from here on out, she would get no part of it.

They swung around. Once astride him, she began rhythmically lifting and lowering herself onto the place where they connected. It vanished, over and over, coming out glistening wet. I couldn't remember a time when she was ever that wet. Then she dropped down one last time, and his hands reached up to grip her hips firmly. He held her against his pelvis and smiled up at her. In response, she leaned back and rested her hands on his thighs. I could see her bite her lip seductively as she began rocking her hips against him. His smile changed from affectionate to cocky, and he took his hands off her hips and put them behind his head. His eyes took in her figure as she danced. I'm not sure anything could be more destructive to a man than to see the inherent eroticism of his wife riding another, silhouetted in the sunlight, her back arched and breasts pushed out, a stray strand of hair hanging down over her sweat-sheened face. 

I recognized him, vaguely. I knew he was someone from her work, higher on the totem pole than her but not someone who worked directly with her. I had met him at a company party once, just long enough to talk football. He didn't leave any distinct impression at the time...he sure was making up for that now.

I considered ruining the party, crashing in and violently ruining the fun, but was stopped short when she let out a low moan and softly told him, "I've really missed you." 

"I've missed you, too," he responded. "I wish we could see each other more often. It's been almost a week."

"I wish we could too, baby," she practically purred. "God, you feel incredible."

And just like that, I was stopped from intervening. I could honestly find no energy to do so. What would be the point? This wasn't the first time. She had betrayed me and come back for more. Who knows how many times this had happened, here in my bed. Suddenly, I was exhausted, feeling sorry for myself, and I was aware that somewhere deep down in my belly I was angry. Incredibly angry. I found that it simmered deep down inside, like a fire that was only beginning to be stoked into combustive brilliance.

Like the rushing, lifting hot air that warns the miners of an incoming blast.

But I needed time to think, and to decide my best course. So I didn't barge in. I didn't reveal myself. I didn't even take pictures. I did the only thing any sane man could do in my situation. 

I went to the Quick Care.

Turned out I didn't need any reading material. I spent the entire ninety minutes of my visit that didn't involve getting looked at and filling my prescription thinking about my life. I couldn't find anything in my marriage that might reasonably be construed as structural weakness. I know that one person's perfect is another's disappointment, but Sherrie and I had always been very communicative about our feelings. If she was ever dissatisfied with a decision I'd made or something I'd done, she would let me know...and she would do it in a way that felt like open honesty rather than attack. I would always do the same for her, and if she got maybe a little bit more emotional about my directness than I did with hers...well, she's a woman. What can you do? She never snapped at me for it, or held it against me, and after she'd had a little time to process she would inevitably come back to discuss solutions. We looked out for one another. 

So how did it come to this? 

I don't care what you read online. People who are caring and affectionate don't just wake up one day and risk destroying the person they love. Not unless they're a sociopath. It has to build to the point where they're willing to do so...they have to be brought to the point of questioning the relationship itself. So how did Sherrie get there? What was her logic? Or, if not logic, what was her emotional base for her actions? What fork in the road had she reached, that I hadn't even noticed? Why had she decided to take that turn, and why hadn't she been honest enough to tell me first? 

How long had I been walking the path alone, and not even knowing it?

None of these questions could be answered in the antiseptic calm of an express care clinic, so I turned my thoughts on consequences instead. I knew that my marriage was over. This wasn't something that I was going to be able to just shrug off, or eventually get past. I didn't know this at the time, but I've since learned that the majority of people who are cheated on will attempt reconciliation with the person who let them down. Good for them...that's probably the Christian way. But it's just not who I am. 

I also wondered if maybe divorce would seem perfectly acceptable to Sherrie. Clearly her feelings for me weren't what I thought they were. She may not love me any more...hell, maybe she'd checked out a long time ago. If that were true, she would happily sign the papers and go on with her life as she had been. Where would that leave me? Undefined and alone, without a thing to show for it. Whatever rage festered inside me only grew as I imagined that she might tear me apart and then waltz off into her happily-ever-after. Surely my feelings were worth something, in all of this? How was I supposed to recover myself, if the universe deemed me unworthy of justice? 

Survival was the name of the game. So the question was, what consequences did I need for my wife to experience in order for me to be able to heal? What punishments could I reasonably hope for her to face as a result of her betrayal? 

Goddamn it, it was simpler than that. I was in a doctor's office and feeling terrible, wasn't I? So the question was as simple as the problem:

What would make me feel better?

I ran through a variety of scenarios, including violent ones, but I ultimately constructed the following list:

I wanted Sherrie to have to take a greater active role in her deception. I knew my wife, in spite of my great miscalculation regarding her fidelity. I knew that, if she was cheating on me, then she was unquestionably using some carefully construed logic as to why it was okay, or why it wouldn't cause harm. Her perception of herself as a moral person was important to her...I should probably thank her Catholic parents for that one...and she would work hard to maintain the idea that there were reasons enough to justify her actions. The more immoral her actions became...the more she lied and snuck around, allowing her affair to become sordid and tainted...the harder that would become for her. And that would drive her crazy.

I wanted her to see the emotional toll her actions placed on me. I knew that a quick confrontation and divorce was probably in her favor, because it would minimize her exposure to my suffering. By and large, having destroyed somebody else's life isn't nearly as difficult to live with as having to SEE that you've done it. She could easily gloss over my pain, and that too would help her justify her actions. I wanted her to see a man falling apart, and for her to have to come to the realization that it was her fault. Showing her pain would be the easiest part of the plan. It was all I felt.

I wanted whatever relationship that existed between herself and this man soured. I wanted it trashed, with no hope of reconciliation. No matter what else happened, I didn't want her able to simply leave me behind and ride off into the sunset. 

I wanted her parents to know. I cared about them. I liked them. They liked me. I didn't doubt that, in the event of a divorce, she would work hard to ensure that her affair was kept secret from them. No way was I going to be the bad guy in their eyes...not if I could help it.

My plan was simple: first, I needed to arrange for her parents to discover her affair. It had to be, or appear to be, of their own accord. I didn't think this would affect any plans I set up for afterwards, because they were a tight knit family. They would be horrified. They would be furious with her. But they also were not the sort to air other people's dirty laundry...and certainly not their own daughter's. And that worked in my favor, too. Their awareness of her terrible failing, of what she had done to me, would be all the more destructive to their relationship with her because their strict beliefs would keep them from coming to me with the truth. And thus they would feel complicit in it. It would also immediately place a damper on Sherrie's relationship with mystery man, as she worked to rewin the respect of her parents.

Soon afterwards, I would begin to act sulky and despondent. After some internal debate, I even decided that I would lose my job. Any attempts to get me to communicate about my troubles would be stonewalled. That alone would send up a red flag in her mind, and Sherrie would be forced to consider that she might be the source of my misery. She might even begin to suspect her parents of secretly going behind her back...why else would I suddenly start acting like I knew, at a time when I'm sure she would be cooling things with her lover while she dealt with the new problems? If it didn't add to the rift between them, it would certainly make reconciliation more difficult.

Finally, I would confront her...in front of her parents...at Christmas. It was two weeks away. Christmas was a big deal holiday in her household, more religious than merry. I had always put up with it without complaint. I cared about these people, and they cared about this day, so there it was. But when I finally broke down and asked her if she was cheating on me, on that day, in that house, with those people, she would effectively be left defenseless. Any attempt to rationalize the destruction of her marriage in front of her parents on a day set aside for spiritual purposes would make the growing divide between them permanent. She would be forced to confess, and to do so in a totally defenseless way. I would then tell her I didn't think I could stay married to her, but that I desperately needed one last Christmas gift from her: I needed her to help me punish the man who had taken my life away. What choice would she have? Her own parents would be on the verge of disowning her, they would be hurting for me, and I'd be giving her one small way to help make things a little better. So she would go to her superiors, admit the affair, claim him as the aggressor and as having initiated it at work, and that would be that. Would he lose his job? I don't give a fuck. What would matter was that, after she did that to him, she could never count on him to be her prince charming ever again.

On my way home, I called my boss and told him I needed to take a week's personal leave time. He asked if it was medical in nature, and I thought about lying to him, but in the end I simply said, "No. I came home early today and found my wife cheating on me. I don't think I'm in a place emotionally to be anything but a threat to those around me." 

"Jesus, Mark," he said. "I'm so sorry. Take the week. Don't do anything stupid."

"I won't. And thanks." I would be sad to have to walk away from my job, and especially those people, but I couldn't really find another way to make my emotional "collapse" seem believable and sizable enough.

When I got home, an hour and a half earlier than normal, she was still there. I guess she'd taken a half day for the party. There was no sign that anything untoward had gone on, but her hair was clearly still wet from a shower. She looked more than a little surprised to see me...I'm sure my unexpected arrival reminded her just how dangerous her activities were.

"H...honey," she said, looking up from her magazine. "You're early. Is something wrong?"

"Pink eye," I said. "You're early, too."

"Oh. Yeah. My head was bothering me and I had already finished all of my important work for the day, anyway, so I took off a few hours early."

"More than a few, I'd say. The dishes are all done and you look like you had time to shower."

Her eyes flicked away from mine for a moment while she thought. "Oh. Yeah. I guess I didn't really look at the time, but it must have been soon after lunch. The shower made my headache feel better."

"Huh." 

"Your eye is so red!" she said with genuine concern. "When did that start?"

"This morning. Maybe around 10 or so."

"Was the quick care that busy?"

"Not really," I walked over to the sink and got a glass of water, purposefully not looking at her. "They let me go a little before lunch. I ran home to get a book, first, before hitting the clinic."

A very pregnant pause met my admission. "Oh," was all she managed.

I poured my water and drank half the glass, stretching out the horrified silence, before smiling to her and saying, "Funny thing is, no sooner had I reached the end of the block then I remembered that I had that Brain Rules book bouncing around the back seat. So I just turned around and was on my way. Added twenty minutes to my drive time for nothing."

She looked relieved. "Oh. Well, that's good," she said absently.

"Good?" I asked. "How is that good?"

"It's good that you had a book. That's all." She looked flustered, now. "So will you be taking a few days off work? Maybe we could take them together?"

"Nope. Lady said that as long as I wash my hands regularly and keep putting the eyedrops in, I shouldn't have to worry about spreading the infection. I'll be going back in tomorrow."

"Oh." She seemed genuinely disappointed. That struck me as odd. Why the hell would you want to spend your afternoons with me, bitch? We both know you've got other things going on. "Well, maybe we can make some time for just us this weekend? I've been missing you."

That's what you told him, too. "Me, too. Tell you what: we should go out for supper tonight. What do you say? Maybe we can even find the motivation to enjoy each other's company tonight. It's been a week since we've done that." I did that cartoony 'get my drift' eyebrow up and down.

Her face flushed, and she looked away. "Dinner sounds nice, but...with my head and your eye...." she trailed off. How do you shoot your husband down when he's trying to give you exactly what you both know you want? Especially when you're shooting him down because you're a little sore from fucking another man?

I acted hurt. Hell, I was. I didn't want to touch her, but it still wounded. "Oh. Okay. Forget it. Let's just do dinner, then."

"Honey," she reached out to hug me, "I'm sorry. It's just..."

"No," I stepped away. "It's fine. I just need to put my eyedrops in and wash my hands before we go. You choose the restaurant...I chose last time."

I walked off to the bathroom. She didn't say a word.

Dinner that night was surprisingly easy to enjoy, and while I had great reservations about sleeping in that bed I figured I could manage to do so for a short while. I only needed to wait until they got together again. He'd said that it had been almost a week, but he'd said it like that was unusual. I would bide my time.

Turns out I didn't have to wait long at all. The very next day, I got up early and took off as if I was going to work. I drove around for half an hour, and then swung around and parked a few blocks from the house. Throwing on a hat and gloves, I walked back in the direction of my home. The plan was to hang out there all day, every day, until they made their next mistake. Then I would start phase one of my plan. I didn't have any idea on what I might do if it turned out that they didn't always use my house to fuck in...and I still don't know what I would have done. I never had to find out. I was stopped short about four houses down from my own by the sight of Sherrie scurrying out in her pajamas, robe, and slippers to put an envelope in the mailbox. She should have left for work right after me. Clearly, she wasn't going anywhere today. In spite of the cold, I made the decision to wait and see what happened. Sure enough, less than twenty minutes later that goddamn car was coming up the road. The garage door opened...I remembered that my opener had gone inexplicably missing about four months ago and I'd had to replace it. I wondered now if Sherrie had given it to her lover.


Tribute Tales: I Screamed...



Four months? Jesus.

As soon as the garage door closed I ran back to my car.

I drove and reparked about a block away...no reason to hide, now...and then I called Sherrie's work. I was told that she wasn't in today...that she'd taken yesterday and today off sick. I acted surprised and admitted that I knew nothing about it, and then hung up.

Next I called the house phone. It rang and rang...I knew it would. That was the plan. Sherrie wouldn't dare answer the phone when she had no way of knowing who might be on the other line. Not when everybody in the world except her boss was supposed to think she was at work. When the machine picked up, I hung up.

Finally, I called her mom.

"Hi, Mark!" she answered. 

"Hey, Marv," I said jovially. Marva was a sweet old woman, but she was tough as nails and I'd taken to calling her Marv many years ago. "Listen, are you and Edward busy right now?"

"Oh," she said, "we were about to go out to look at a new snowblower is all. Why do you ask?"

"That's perfect, actually. I'm just concerned about Sherrie. She was up and ready for work when I left this morning, but I called her at the office and they said she's taking a day for illness. I called the house phone but nobody answers. Do you think you could swing by on your way and check on her?"

"Hmm," she sounded thoughtful, "sure we can. You think anything serious could be wrong?"

"No. Maybe she's just in bed. But I'd like to know she's alright. And, if she is sick, she could probably use a little help."

"You're a sweet man, Mark. We'll check on her."

"Thanks."

After we hung up, I rubbed my hands together and waited. I had the engine turned off...Sherrie's parents lived just over a mile up the way in the other direction, so they wouldn't go by me on their way in, but I didn't want the exhaust drawing their attention.

Sure enough, ten minutes later they were pulling up into the driveway. They must not have called ahead, or if they did they didn't leave a message either, because shithead hadn't left the house. I was glad. Using the key they had, Marva and Larry went straight in through the front door. 

I felt a little bad for them, for what was no doubt happening right now. They didn't deserve to be hurt by Sherrie's decision any more than I had. We were all just down in the mine, she'd lit the match. But, after more than twenty-four hours of hurting on my own, I was downright giddy when I thought of what Sherrie must be experiencing. 

Not three minutes after they walked in the front door, the garage door opened and shithead's car tore out the driveway and down the street. His tires screeched, he was in such a hurry.

The garage door closed.

After that, silence.

I had a thought. I called work again.

"Hey," my boss said. "How are you, Mark? Things looking any better on the home front?"

"Yes and no," I said. "Do me a favor...if anybody not work-related calls looking for me, have the secretaries tell them I'm out on assignment. I don't want to talk to my wife or her parents just now, and I'm worried that they might not take no for an answer."

"I can do that. Should we be expecting you back soon, or is it still a week?"

I thought about that. "I'll be in tomorrow, Tom. I might as well be."

"You sure?"

"I'm sure."

"Well, I'm glad to know it. See you then, Mark."

I watched the house for two more hours, curiosity driving me crazy, before I finally just decided to up and head out. I wasn't going to find anything else out this way, and it should be enough for now to know that the first step in my plan had worked. I spent the rest of the day driving around, window shopping at sporting goods stores. I did stop and pay cash for a 375 of tequila to take edge off, and it helped. Although I had shied away from it since college, my family was a crew of drinkers and my tolerance level seemed to be inherited. My own father, now living in Texas and in his late 60's, still bought two bottles of scotch every Friday night, and they would both inevitably be gone by the following Friday. I never remember seeing him drunk...he would just have a drink at lunch, another at supper, and a third before bed. Every day. Always. Mom was just as bad. Today, I decided it was okay to join them.

When I got home that night, Sherrie was in bed. Her parents had gone by that point, and there was a note in my wife's handwriting on the table. It simply said that she still wasn't feeling well and that she had taken the day off, and that she loved me. Nothing more. Huh.

I wondered what all her parents had said to her. I mean, there was really no doubt about how they would view their daughter's indiscretion, but as far as just how severely they'd come down on her I couldn't guess. Obviously they hadn't been too nice to shithead, from the way he'd torn out of there, so I imagined they must have been pretty livid. I peaked my head in the bedroom, but she was either asleep or faking it.

Whatever.

I didn't sleep at all that night. The next day I went into work early, but I couldn't concentrate on anything. Images of my wife rising and lowering herself on another man's pole kept intruding. The imagined sound of her voice eagerly calling him after her fool husband had left for work. The way she leaned back and rode him, sillhouetted by the sun streaming in through the thin material of the curtains. 

After a few hours, without thinking much about it, I opened a Word document and began typing. I just mindlessly began telling my story in the guise of a fictional tale. I don't know why. I don't even really know if I thought about it. I just wrote. I changed the names, but wasted no time in punishing my protagonist with the same bleak scenario I had faced:

I looked in on them, my whole life deflating by the instant, I wrote. This wasn't mindless rutting, or some horny drive to couple. That would have been painful enough. This was worse. It was lovemaking. My wife making love to another man. The woman who was half of me, taking that half away.

I had effectively told the story of my day up to that point. But then, though I didn't know why, I began to change events.

I couldn't bring myself to move. I thought I might vomit at any moment. I felt two simultaneous urges ...one sending me towards the betrayers for vengeance and the other begging me to run as far away as I could get. My feet moved before I could react, each inclined towards a different goal, and so instead of doing either I simply stumbled and fell to the ground.

The sound alerted them. I kept my head down, not wanting to see any more, but I heard a lot of movement from the room and the sound of my wife cussing. For my part, I was still dazed. I pushed my back up against the wall in a sitting position, drawing my knees up to my chin. The door opened and Beth's robe-covered legs came into view. I heard her gasp my name, but I didn't look up. 

"Wha....what are you doing home?" she asked. "Are you okay?" I thought that was a funny question to ask.

"Can you ask him to leave?" I responded quietly, my voice as hoarse as if I'd spent the entire morning yelling.

"Who...yes." She shuffled away, and a moment later I saw him rush past. I didn't bother looking to see who it was. It didn't matter.

For a while I was alone, there. She didn't come back out right away. I heard the shower running, and her talk to somebody on the phone, and then finally Beth was with me again. "I'm so sorry," she said.

"Do you love him?"

It took her too long to answer. "No," was the word she gave me, but it was a bad joke. I couldn't help it. I started crying. "I asked my parents to come get me," she said. "I'll stay with them, until...until you decide what you want to do."

"What do I want to do?"

She crouched down next to me. I could see that she'd been crying, too. She shook her head sadly. "I know you won't believe me when I say this, but I do love you and I do want to stay married."

"You shouldn't go."

"I shouldn't?" She looked hopeful.

"No. I should. It's not like I could ever sleep in there again," I waved to the bedroom. "I'll find a place and...call you. If that's okay."

She put her hand over her mouth, fresh tears growing, and nodded. Then she ran back into the bedroom and I heard her sobs.

After a while, I got up and left. 

I sat back, looked at my story, and frowned. I was exhausted, half-dazed from lack of sleep, and swimming in emotional turmoil, but none of that explained why I would want to write such a story. Why had I taken and turned myself into such a wimp? Why would I write a new version of events in which I totally succumbed to the agony I had in reality buried deep down? The agony that I was making a concentrated effort to contain. 

I couldn't answer that, so I quit writing.

I got some work done and, at the end of the day, I went back to that story and wrote a little about the sorrow I felt at the complete way my wife had failed me. I even wrote a little about the questions I had as to whether I might have done something differently in order to prevent it. But the plot remained stagnant. When I closed it, I hesitated at the computer's question before ultimately deciding to save it. I was so exhausted I almost decided to call a cab to take me home.

That night was the first I'd seen of Sherrie since the shit hit the fan. She was quiet and reserved, but also seemed a bit contrite in her behavior. I noted the circles under her eyes, but didn't bother saying anything about them.

"Hi, honey," she greeted me. "How was your day?"

"Oh. Alright. Not as exciting as yesterday, that's for sure." I let that hang a moment. "How about yours? Are you feeling better now?"

She looked away. "I think so. I'm still really tired, but I think that...whatever I had...is over now." She brightened up. "And I'm glad, because we've only one more day until the weekend. Are we still planning big things?"

I forced a smile. "You'd better believe it." I turned to walk down the hall...I was eager to put something more comfortable on...when her voice stopped me.

"Mark?" she said. "I know I've been...well, I guess I feel like I haven't been giving our marriage as much attention as I should, lately. I want you to know that...that I'm sorry. I'm going to do better."

What was this? It wasn't an admission, but it sure sounded like a woman who actually wants to stay married. Somehow, that likelihood hadn't really occurred to me. I tried to figure how I might have responded to that statement before I knew the truth of her actions.

I turned around and walked back, taking her in my arms. "You have seemed preoccupied," I lied, "but I understand. I kind of assumed that, whatever it was, it had more to do with your job than with me. After all, if you were ever unhappy with me, or about anything that I could help you with, you would come to me before doing anything else, right?"

I felt her hug become weak. "Yes. Of course."

"And I hope you know that I would do whatever I could to help you with any problem," I said, enjoying myself. "So when you didn't come and talk to me, I assumed that it was something I couldn't help with, something that you needed to fix on your own. I hope this conversation means everything is back to normal?"

"Definitely." The hug found renewed strength.

"So can you tell me what it was?" I asked. She stiffened against me. "Was it work?"

"I...yes...it was....it was so many things. Just...little things. A lot of little things."

"Oh. Okay. Well, I'm glad you're back now." I stepped back, and went to change. "What's for supper?"

That night she was very attentive, trying hard to get me talking about my day, and then listening carefully and asking questions. Playing the devoted wife. I went along for the ride, but when she tried to entice me to make love to her that night, I drew the line.

"Honey," I said when she snuggled up next to me and ran her hand over my chest, "I'm really tired. Besides, we're both just coming off being sick. Let's save it for the weekend."

Her hand slipped away and she propped herself up in the bed. You can bet I never turned down sex. She looked at me in the dark for a moment.

"Are you sure?" she asked nervously. "I miss you."

"I miss you, too," I said, and in my own way I meant it. "Just give me a night to rest. I'm looking forward to destroying you." I said it with a sly tone, so that she took it to be a sexual promise. With a giggle, she lay down and rolled over. Shortly, she was asleep.

Me? I spent a second night in a row wide awake. I thought some about her new attitude, whether it changed things, but I ultimately decided that it didn't. There are a hundred thousand reasons why our marriage wasn't something I was willing to emotionally commit to anymore, and a hundred thousand other people who will gladly explain it to you. For my part, I'll just leave it as a statement of fact. We were done.

The next day I went to work early to avoid seeing her, and as I sat in the early morning traffic I wondered. I wondered what she was thinking, what she was hoping. It was hard to read. Did she want to repair the damage she'd done to our marriage? Was she hoping that it would all blow over and she could get back to her lover? Was she really even calling things off with him, now, or were they just being more discrete until the coast was clear?

Had her parents' discovery ruined her plans, set them back, or simply brought to light a terrible but ongoing mistake that she made with no real aim or direction?

I found myself getting sad. Probably, some of it was the lack of sleep. Going on three days with little sleep is bound to make anybody moody. I knew I could use that to my advantage after work tonight, but for now it feeling lonely and depressed was a burden, nothing more. For the near future, I had my plans and manipulations to keep me distracted. Little goals were being set and met, and that kept the big picture from intruding. But it was there, and it was ugly: soon to be divorced man taking his earliest steps into middle age, career healthy but not anything special...not anything that will ever make him wealthy. Hair still there but starting to show signs of thinning. Bags under his eyes from years of hard work. Hard work on nothing. I sat at one particularly long red light and looked at myself in the vanity mirror. 

"Who," I asked the reflection, "is ever going to want to take a chance on you?"

The man in the mirror just looked back at me.

By the time I got to work, though, I was bored with the sulking. So I set it aside. There wasn't any purpose to it, except that it would help me define future goals once this mess was over and done. More exercise? A career change? Move to Europe? If ever I was going to experiment with who I was...

I didn't get any work done that day, but I didn't do much else either. I left three hours later than normal.

Driving home that night, I was excited. It was time for phase two of my plan. A new short term goal, attainable and with immediate reward, to take my mind off the troubles. Sherrie was looking forward to a romantic weekend, to making up with her husband and getting on with her life. It would be so good for her, I'm sure, to have that little bit of reassurance that the consequences of her actions would turn out to be brief and relatively minor. In fact, if this were to turn out to be a reconnecting weekend of passion I'm sure she would tell herself that her affair had been a good thing because it ultimately led to us affirming our bond in a way we otherwise would not have done. She would think our relationship stronger because of it.

Instead, she was going to get two and a half days of sulky, withdrawn Mark and his refusal to talk about whatever was upsetting him. Nothing she could do or offer would help...in fact, if she made the mistake of trying to sooth me with affection or sex she would find that only made it worse. No, there would be no marriage saving weekend. There was nothing left to save. What Sherrie was going to get was the first ringing toll of the bell to let her know that it was, indeed, over.

I bought another 375 of tequila on the way home. I drank it fast, letting a good portion spill down my chin and onto my clothes. As I pulled into the garage, I could feel the first vestiges of a thick buzz running through the space behind my eyeballs. I stumbled a bit as I came into the house.

Sherrie was there, dressed up, and a little anxious looking. She must have been concerned about my lateness. She ran up to greet me. 

"Honey! I was worr..." she trailed off as she reached me, saw the dull and angry look in my eyes, and smelled the tequila. "Wh...what's going on? Have you been drinking?"

I looked at her a long moment, pinching my face into a self-pitying bitterness, and said, "I have to pee." Then I pushed past her and stumbled into the bathroom. When I came out, she was sitting at the table with a glass of white wine in her hands. The bottle was sitting in the middle of the table, and an empty glass had been set at my place. 

"I thought I'd join the party, if that's okay?" She was attempting a smile, but she looked positively terrified. I noted her careful decision not to push me into telling her what was wrong. Instead, she was trying to subtly bring me back to where she had hoped I'd be. It was a weak attempt on her part to roll with the punches and make the most of her relationship-saving weekend plans. But I wasn't about to give her even that much. 

"Do whatever the fuck you want," I snapped. "I'm going to bed."

She deflated a little bit. "Is...is something wrong?"

I looked at her silently, and for the first time since discovering the truth I let my heartache show on my face. "Yes," I whispered, and then I turned and shuffled away. She didn't say a word, or try to come after me. I got ready for bed, climbed in, and lay there for a long time staring at the ceiling. I could hear her on the phone to someone, talking low. Probably, she was trying to find out if her parents had squealed on her. Would she believe them when they assured her that they hadn't? Or would a liar find it hard to trust others? If she believed them, what paranoias might infest her thinking? I smiled to myself in the dark.

The night passed quickly. Still no sleep...I might have dozed a bit, but I was awake enough to know I needed to fake sleep when she finally came to bed sometime after midnight. Mostly, I thought about how to best sell my position in the morning, and I listened to Sherrie toss and turn under the sheets. I don't think she slept real well, either.

Saturday morning, I got up early again and had a healthy breakfast. I noticed that the bottle of wine, still sitting on the kitchen table, was now empty. I threw it away.

It had snowed during the night, so I went out and shoveled off the walk. It felt pretty good, to be honest. I don't usually like the cold, and have often fantasized about moving, but being out there physically exerting myself was really enjoyable. It got the blood pumping, and helped me focus. It also made me think that maybe I should get myself a gym membership when all of this was over.

When I came back inside, Sherrie was up. She looked terrible. She never was much of a drinker.

She offered me a, "Good morning, honey," her eyes searching and hopeful. I nodded, gave her a searching look right back, and then went off to shower. By the time I came out she'd had breakfast, and was picking out what to wear for the day.

"Are we...are you still up for some romance this weekend?" she asked. "It would sure make me happy if you gave me the chance to cheer you up a little." I didn't respond, just went about the process of putting on a pair of ratty jeans that I only ever used for yardwork days. Take the hint, bitch. She watched me sadly. Then, she came over and tried rubbing my shoulders. "Baby, whatever is upsetting you, I...I know it can't be as big a thing as all this. Whether it's something at work, or....or something else, it can be fixed. I know it can. You just have to let go of it, and not let it consume you. Problems do go away, if you let them." 




Tribute Tales: I Screamed...



I jerked away from her grip, and glared at her over my shoulder. I opened my mouth, ready to tear into her for even believing in such a bullshit solution. Then, I remembered my goals. I wanted her to see the pain her actions had brought, and I wanted to force her into becoming a more active participant in the covering up. So I let my shoulders sag, and gave her my best hangdog look. "This one's too big," I said morosely. "I don't know that I can solve it, except to just die." Then, I sat down on the edge of the bed and looked at the floor.

She didn't move. Her breathing was labored, like she'd just run a race. I knew I'd stunned her, by hitting her with the entirety of the tragedy all at once. She started to cry. I had to fight from smiling. She really bought that shit. 

"Is there anything I can do?" she asked at last. "Anything at all?" It caught me off guard a little bit. I didn't expect her to be brave enough to risk such a loaded question. I thought about my response.

"Maybe there was, once," I admitted. "But I think it's too late now."

With that, she ran from the room.

The rest of the weekend went about the same. I played the part of the broken man, and she alternated between tears and terror. I think she figured that the other shoe was going to drop at any time.

Acting sad wasn't really all that big a challenge. I just had to think about the affectionate and loving way she'd spoken to him, as she'd given herself to him on our bed. That was an image that was going to be with me for a long time.

A few times, I thought she might actually confess to me. She would seem to square up her shoulders and would start a line about how important our honesty had always been, how it had always seen us through, but she never quite seemed to get to the point of admission.

By Sunday night, I could see that her conscience was killing her. She looked as bad as I did, and would give me long, weary, sympathetic looks whenever she didn't think I could see. Sherrie felt terrible, and she knew it was too late to fix it. 

Well, she should feel terrible, goddamn it.

Monday morning, I was all smiles. I still wasn't sleeping...I did grab over an hour Sunday night...and I was moving through a world that seemed half hidden in haze, but I was starting to affect things. And my loving wife was coming apart at the seams. After what she had done to me, it felt cathartic to be able to impact her in some way.

When I got to my office and powered up my computer, the first thing I noticed was that Word document sitting on my desktop. I don't know why I did it, but I opened it and started writing. I'd left off with the characters having remained separated for a period of days, reflecting, and I continued from there.

"I'm glad you came," she said quietly. "I've missed you."

"Isn't that what you told him?" I asked, but I couldn't make myself say it with any venom. She looked down at her folded hands.

We were sitting in the living room, our first meeting since I caught her. I'd spent three days at a hotel before deciding that it was costing too much money, and then I'd spent an additional two days on a friend's couch. Now, I finally felt like I had myself together enough to talk to her.

She looked terrible, and for some reason that didn't make me happy. "Do you think there's a chance for us?" she asked.

I sighed. "That's such a loaded question, Beth. I mean, you cheated on me. You took that thing that was just for us, and gave it to someone else. You gave it to him in my house, in my bed, and you almost couldn't bring yourself to lie to me and say that you didn't love him."

"I didn't!" she said. "I mean...not like I love you. It's not like that."

"What's it like, then?"

She looked nervous, like she was fighting with herself about what to say. "It was affectionate, between him and me. I can't say there wasn't...emotion...there. But it wasn't love, or not any more so than the kind of love you might feel for a close friend."

"But he was important to you."

She closed her eyes. "Yes."

"How did it start?"

"Johnny," she said, "please don't make me...tell you about it. About him."

"Why not?" This time I did snap. "Is it none of my business? Do you feel like I don't have the right to know?"

"It's not that," she sobbed. "I'm just so scared that anything I might say could...could make you leave again. I don't want that."

"Well, I promise you this. If you don't tell me everything, I am leaving. I'm leaving, and not coming back. No doubt about that."

She broke down, and I waited until she was able to pull herself back together. "Okay. I'll try. I will."

"I think I can help you," I said. "I know a few things about affairs. I've been reading up. I know that when a man cheats it's pretty hit or miss about who he'll choose. Men who are out to cheat will screw just about anything. But a woman who has an affair is different. She almost always chooses a man who is both of a higher social class than herself and her husband, and a man who is more attractive than her husband. I know that guy works in your office, so I'm going to guess that in addition to being more handsome than I am he's also pretty high up on the totem pole. Anything wrong so far?"

She was fighting tears again. "I don't think he's more handsome than you."

"Liar. Now, I'm guessing that since you work together and he's a dashing dreamboat authority figure, that he picked you out to woo and that you let him. Maybe it was just the way he looks, or the flattery of it, but you let it happen. Am I wrong there?"

She shook her head, losing the battle and crying. 

"How long ago was that?"

She shook her head again.

"HOW LONG?!"

"Six months."

I stared at her. "Six months. Jesus." I felt like throwing up. "Can you tell me what our relationship lacked? I mean, there must have been something, for you to do this to me. What was I doing wrong?"

"Nothing! Nothing! You have to believe that! It was never about you."

"The hell it wasn't. It was always about me. It was about betraying me, replacing me, and denying me. So tell me why, goddamn it!"

"I don't know!" She looked completely lost. I believed her.

"One more question for today," I said, "and then we're done. For now," I clarified when her eyes grew wide. "Just for now. I've also read that women are more likely to be freer sexually with their affair than they might be in their marriage. A majority of women who cheat use it as an opportunity to experiment with their sexual identity. So tell me...what did you do for him that you don't do for me?"

"Oh, god, Johnny," she pulled her legs up, curling into a ball, and cried. And just like that, I didn't want to know. I didn't want to know what it was that my wife had given her lover and denied me. The potential list was staggering..anal sex? Swallowing? Had she dabbled in bondage, or had she worn sexy lingerie? Did they act out fantasies together? Did they fuck in a public place? I didn't want to know. It was enough to know that she had, in fact, put me on the low side of her sexual equation. He'd gotten the whole number, I'd gotten a fraction.

"I need to go," I mumbled, stumbling as I rushed to the door, trying to control my tears.

I left the story up the rest of the day as I worked, occasionally adding details to it. My character continued to see his wife, to talk about what had happened, and continued to brood over what he should do with his life. I could think of no good reason for writing the goddamn thing...I could never see myself handling an affair the way he was...but it was oddly enjoyable to write it. 

At the end of the day, I was halfway home before I realized that I'd left my computer on and the story up when I'd left. Fucking lack of sleep was screwing me up.

I started to think about how things were going. Sherrie was a wreck, which was good. But she was a long ways away from broken, yet. I needed to step up the misery at home. It also occurred to me that I only had eight days left in which to lose my job. I had probably started on that part of the plan soon. I would miss it, but it felt necessary. Sherrie needed to think that my whole life had collapsed, and that she'd been the one to cause it all to happen. Throw in her natural Catholic guilt, and you had a life lesson that would bother her until the day she died.

When I got home, I was surprised to see Sherrie's parents' car in the driveway. I wondered what that could be about.

They were all sitting around the table waiting for me when I walked in. I noted the looks of sadness on Larry and Marva's faces. I felt genuine pity for them. Sherrie, for her part, looked anxious. She was watching all of us closely. 

"Hi, Marv," I said without my usual cheer. "Hey, Edward. What brings you two here?"

"Oh," Edward tried for affable, "we were just in the neighborhood. Thought we'd see how you two lovebirds were getting along."

"Lovebirds," I said flatly. "Is that what you think?"

"I...er..." he glanced over at the women, his eyes flashing anger as his daughter looked at him beseechingly, "truth is Sherrie is worried about you. She says you've been acting depressed, but won't talk to her about it. She's worried, son...she doesn't know what she can do, to help you."

"In all honesty, Ed, I don't think you would understand."

Marva cut in at that. "I think you'd be surprised by just what we understand," she said, her tone hard. Sherrie looked miserable.

"Thing is," Edward gave his wife a patient look, "life throws us some hardballs. And sometimes, life doesn't always have to do the throwing. Sometimes people we trust do it first. The question, Mark, is never how do we make everything better. The question is how do we find a way to live with it?"

I looked over at him, a little bit of my respect for him showing. Without actually saying it, he'd acknowledged what everybody in the room already knew: his daughter had let us all down, and now we were all suffering. We were all going to have to learn to live with it, in some way.

I could see there was some truth to what he was saying, and I might have been encouraged to continue the discussion with him, but Sherrie didn't know when to quit. "We CAN make everything better. I know we can, honey," she said, throwing her father an exasperated look. "You just have to let me help you. I just want to help you!"

I looked from her to her father and back again. She looked hopeful, while he kind of shook his head at her words and gave me an understanding look. 

"I need to be alone," I told them. "I'm really sorry, but I just don't want to be around people right now."

"We understand," Marva said, and Edward nodded, but Sherrie started crying.

"Please, Mark!" she said. "Don't go through this alone. I know we can..."

"SHUT UP!" 

The words hadn't come from me. It was her father who had finally had enough of her bullshit. I fought the urge to stare as he stormed over and grabbed her by the arm. Talk about payoff.

"Marva," he said, "get the car started. Sherrie, get your shoes and coat. Now. The man wants to be alone, he's gonna get left alone for awhile. And nobody is going to say otherwise," he glared at his daughter. She looked shocked, and terrified. Maybe Marva did, too. Either way, they were gone in less than two minutes. 

I couldn't stop from pumping my fist in the air and whooping after the car had pulled away. When I'd decided to involve her parents, I'd never dreamed that the results would be so fantastic. And now she would have to spend a solemn, bitter meal with them while her sulking husband cried at home alone.

Right.

I made a frozen pizza and looked at porn online. It was the first time I'd thought about sex since I'd found them together, and it was great. Afterwards, I decided that I wanted to be in bed when my loving wife returned home. No reason to give her another chance to try and talk me out of my moodiness. But I wanted to leave her a present so that she couldn't gloss over the turmoil she'd caused, so I took out a few plates and glasses and threw them around the kitchen. The shattered glass and ceramic, and the accompanying marks on the wall, seemed like a pretty nice 'welcome home' present.

I wasn't in bed very long before she returned home. Her parents walked her in, talking quietly, and they all fell very quiet for a long time after they reached the kitchen. After a time, Sherrie checked in on me. I feigned sleep. I don't know how long they stayed, or what time she came to bed. I was so lost in my thoughts that I barely paid her any attention. When I got up the next morning everything was cleaned up.

Coming into the office the next morning I was surprised to see my boss sitting at my desk. He appeared engrossed in something on the screen, but he sheepishly leapt up as I entered the room. I couldn't figure...

Oh, shit. 

My story! I'd left it up when I'd gone home.

"Mark," he said, fidgeting with his fingers like he always did when he was nervous. "I'm so sorry. I...uh...you hadn't been getting your reports in, and you weren't answering any of my e-mails. I thought maybe you just..." he trailed off eyes darting to the screen. "Is that really how it happened? The way you wrote it?"

I took a deep breath. Talk about embarrassing. "No way. Well, I mean, the first part is. But I didn't react the way that guy is reacting. Not at all."

"So what..." he glanced at the computer, confusion on his face. "What are you writing about?"

"I don't know. I haven't been able to sleep since I saw them together, and I can't always think straight. To be honest, it confuses the hell out of me. But I can't seem to stop writing it."

"But she was really...with him...in your bed? In your house?"

"Yes."

He shook his head. "So, if you don't mind me asking...how DID you react? How did you not kill them both?"

"I thought about it, right up until she started talking. Then I knew that it was too late to matter, so I had to ask myself what I felt it would take for me to be able to move forward." 

"What did you decide?"

After a moment's hesitation, I told him. I told him all of it. My plan, including the part about getting fired, and how it had been going. He seemed enthralled by it all, and was grinning by the end.

"That sounds fantastic...except the part about getting fired. Look, you really have been falling behind deadlines. I could put you on leave for as much as a few months, if you want. That way you don't have to walk away if you don't want to. If it'll help, I'll even put in a concerned phone call to your wife about how you're moping around and not doing any work. I'll make it sound like you're about to get fired."

"That might be preferable to quitting. I'll think about it. The phone call is definitely a nice touch."

He nodded, his brow furrowing thoughtfully. "So if in reality you are bent on retribution and enforcing consequences for her actions, then why in the story is this guy...this guy who is supposed to be you...why are you trying to make it work with her? That seems so weird to me, that you would write yourself a fantasy in which you're a much softer person. That's not who you are. No offense."

I shrugged. "Like I said, I can't figure it, either. I only know that I can't stop writing it. It feels strangely good to put this alternative reality on paper, even if I'd never go for it." I shrugged. "I've been asking myself over and over why that might be, but I don't know."

"Hmm," he scratched his chin. "So there really is no hope for you two? It's definitely over?"

"I think so, yeah. Every night I'm home with her I just get angrier. I don't see how I could ever get back to the kind of honest, open relationship we had before. I'll never trust her again. And I'll certainly never sleep with her again."

"It's just so sad. You two always seemed the perfect couple."

"I thought so, too." I sat down in my chair. This was making me tired.

"Well, just make sure you don't have any doubts before you pull the trigger on this. It's not too late to rethink, but it will be soon." He smiled. "Listen to me. What an asshole I am. When should I make the call to your wife?"

"Today. As soon as you can. You have her work number on file, but I can write it down for you if you'd prefer."

"No. That's fine. I need to start the paperwork to put you on leave anyway. Want to start that today?"

I thought about it, and shrugged. "Sure. Why not."

After he left, I looked at my story for a long time. And then I started typing.

"Where do we go from here?" she asked.

I didn't know what to say. After two months of counseling and countless attempts on both our parts to reignite our relationship, we were still dealing with the after-effects of her affair. Twice we had attempted intimacy, and twice I had been unable to perform. She had finally broken down and suggested that I have an affair, as well, and I had stormed out on her in a rage. We both had a much better understanding of what had led to her fall, but it didn't do anything to my confidence in her to have it clinically analyzed and explained away. The truth was, for all our efforts, I was just holding myself back emotionally because I was scared of her. Dreadfully so.

"I wish I knew," I admitted. "It doesn't seem to be getting any better, does it?"

She shook her head. "You're wrong. It has gotten better. I'm much more aware of just how awful a thing it was for me to do to you. I much more aware of your pain. And it's killing me. I'm in pain all of the time. I never stop thinking about you, and how you must be feeling."

"And you call that 'getting better?'" I asked.

"I do! I want to have that pain, and I want you to see me experiencing it! It's important, I think, for both of us."

I thought about that a minute. "But it still doesn't seem like a way forward."

"Maybe not," she said, "But it doesn't have to. It doesn't have to look like anything. For all the directions you can turn yourself there is only one forward, and you are always moving there."

 I stared at her a minute, speechless. She gave me a sad smile. It was a look that said she understood. No matter what I said next, no matter what I decided I would do, she understood.

"It's going to take a long time," I told her.

"Then we'll let it," she said. "I think you'll be amazed to learn just how long I'm ready to hold on for."

"Then I guess I'd like to find out."

The End.

I read the words I'd just typed. They seemed to carry such a nice sentiment with them...such a powerful statement about the strength that love can have, even in the face of destruction. I wondered why they moved me so much. I saved the file, and then I shut down my computer. 

A little after lunch Tom came back in. "I just had a little conversation with your wife," he winked. "Wanna hear about it?"

"You know I do."

He obviously took great joy in telling me about it. He smiled all through the explanation of how he'd expressed grave concern about my attitude, my emotional state, and my apparent inability to do my job. He told me he'd asked her if she knew of any reason why it might be happening, and she'd stumbled her way through a few sentences about how she had no idea. She only knew that I was pulling away, and she didn't know what to do about it. 

"So then I said, 'Oh, that's too bad. Unless we can figure out what's going on, we're probably going to have to suspend him for a while. And that's usually just a prerequisite to termination.' She was so stunned, she didn't say a thing. Here she knew exactly why you were so depressed, and she couldn't bring herself tell me...even to save your job! So when you come home tonight with the news, you'll have to watch and see how she takes it." He laughed.

"That's perfect," I laughed with him. "I'll let you know how it goes."