i am no catholic. and i am no saint.
my feet were cold on the hardwood floor but not cold enough to make me move them.
so i simply sat at the foot of my bed, hands locked and resting in my lap. had i not had on underwear, this moment might have become awkward for myself.
but my mind would even let my body wonder of anything other than the reason why i was sitting on my bed and not actually in it.
a blue night sky shone on my face.
outside, the sky was clear. no clouds, a few stars, a moon...somewhere.
the wind howled. my knuckles cracked.
i rubbed my hands together, hoping to create enough body heat to warm my feet.
or maybe i was just nervous. antsy. restless.
"sweetheart," said the ever familiar voice of my wife, "come back to bed. what are you doing down there?"
without turning to look at her, i replied, "thinking. just thinking."
"would you like to tell the woman who took your last name, cleans your underwear and has awaken to your face for the past six years what is on your mind?"
"would i like to, no. but should i? yes."
there was a stiff silence. after a statement like that, how could one not know?
the silence lingered in the air like the gagging perfume of a dead body.
thick. heavy. unforgettable.
"please, explain, my husband."
there was no tactful way to go about this. no way to say this without the message being missed, watered down or any less hurtful, "i've been with another."
as a man with his doctorate in psychology, i can tell you how people will react to certain things. how emotions usually lead to the same response in different people. i have known this woman long enough to know how she would react to certain information. i had planned everything up until this moment, because, up until this moment, i knew how she would respond.
but, from this moment and beyond, i could no longer speculate.
"oh, but i know, love."
with this information, it was i who was shocked.
"you do? but...but how?"
"look at you. you came home late, you refused dinner, you didn't have a glass of wine nor read your book, no jazz by the fire, nothing in your character that you've so perfectly constructed. i've been making sexual passes at you all night and you've all but rejected me. you could hardly look me in the eye tonight. i knew it the moment you walked in the door."
"so now what?" i asked out of pure curiosity.
"now, you come to bed. it is late, we both have things to do in the morning. there is no point in moping about what you've already done and its far to late to appeal to my emotional side. just come up here and go to sleep with me."
"you don't hate me?"
"oh please Percy. of course i hate you. i cook, clean, show you endless amounts of affection, play date with your mother as if i like the bitch and you sneak out and fuck someone else? you're damn right i hate you but what good will it do me now? i've invested too much time into this. too much effort. it'd be foolish for me to get up and break a few mirrors on your behalf. is that what you were expecting? some, irrational, illogical response that would end in one of use storming out and, potentially, a divorce? no. you won't find that here. but, then again, according to your penis, you clearly don't find much here. with that said, you're much too delusional to even still be awake."
"then, you're not leaving?"
"no, Percy. i am not."
crickets could be heard chirping their little symphony outside.
owls "whoooo"ed as if begging me to spurt my mistress' name. but apparently, that information was now irrelevant.
my previous acts, this conversation, they had left me begging the question, "am i happy here?"
and, quite possibly, the only relevant question left, "does it even matter?"
six years of marriage to a woman with a law degree who doesn't work, what would i gain by leaving her? freedom or a new national debt. is the grass greener? or should i just water the grass i have? or will my new yard suffer the same fate as this one?
weak from a lack of rebuttal all i could muster was, "my mother is no bitch. and she guineuinly liked you."
and i left the room.
