“I hope she’s not banging that kid seven ways from Sunday,” I deadpanned to Bob, “Because that’s my wife, Traci.”
I slowly turned back around in my chair as Bob literally spit up his drink.
“Smooth move, Bob. She’s not looking over here now, is she?” I asked.
“No,” he replied while reaching for a napkin. “You’re not kidding, are you?”
“Nope.”
“Jesus, Mick. What are you going to do? I suppose you could go over there and break the little bastard’s neck. I think you can do that and get away with it in this state — call it under extreme duress.”
I work out lifting weights on a regular basis, and at least on the surface it appeared I probably could break the bastard’s neck. But being an engineer, I’m more prone to analyze things carefully than react emotionally, and while a small part of me wanted to beat the guy to a pulp, a large part of me wanted to shake the shit out of my wife and found out what was going on — and why. So I made Bob sit there with me and drink while the two of them had a nice meal. Bob could see everything going on at their table, and reported everything from hand-holding to an intimate kiss. When they finally got up to leave, Bob paid our bill, and I told him that I wouldn’t be in tomorrow before I followed the lovers out at a safe distance.
“R-r-right. Gotcha,” he stammered.
They had apparently come to the bar together, because Traci got into his car and they left, with me following in my car. They drove to what I’m guessing is his house in a pretty good neighborhood. I made note of the address as I drove on by and went to our house. It was 8:30 p.m.
Traci never made it home that night. Since she didn’t expect me until around supper time tomorrow, she didn’t have to worry about going home.
I obviously didn’t get much sleep that night. I tried to sleep in our bed, but the more I thought about what I had just witnessed, the angrier I got, so I went downstairs to the family room sofa and slept fitfully there. Before morning, I took my car back out of the garage and parked it down a street a bit, knowing Traci wouldn’t see it because she wouldn’t be looking for it.
The garage entry into the house leads into the kitchen, so about 7 a.m. I made myself a big pot of coffee and some toast and sat down at the kitchen table, facing the doorway, with the lights off. I was three cups of coffee in when I heard the garage door go up at about 9, and Traci came waltzing in about 20 seconds later.
The look on her stunned face was priceless as I snapped a photo of her with my iPhone. In fact, she was so shocked to find anyone in the kitchen, let alone me, that she screamed and fell back against the door that she had just closed behind her. When it dawned on her that it was me in the kitchen, she screamed again, but this time it was the words “Holy shit!”
“What the fuck are you even doing home?!” she half-asked, half-ranted at me.
Then she must have realized what she looked like. Her lipstick was mostly rubbed off, her eye makeup had run down on her cheeks, her hair was completely disheveled, and was that a little bit of dried cum at the corners of her mouth? Why yes; yes it was. And then there was the hooker dress, which I had never seen before last night.