I scratched the back of my neck. Without knowing more, I didn’t know how to confront her. What would she say? “I’m sorry, honey. I never wanted you to find out. Oh, God! Please forgive me. I’m leaving you. I’ve made a terrible mistake. I’m being blackmailed. I need to fuck strange men. I don’t want to lose you. It’s all your fault for leaving me alone. Your cock isn’t big enough. He makes me come. I thought you were cheating and wanted revenge.” She might say anything. “I found out you’re sterile so I’ve been having sex with your brother to get pregnant.” Am I sterile and don’t know it? Why not go all the way: “I’m a vampire and I meet strange men in hotels to drink their blood. I’m a secret agent and what I’m doing is classified, but I want you to know, honey, that I’m only doing this for my country.” I put the condom and the notebook back in their places.
When you’re very sad, the bottom part of your face pulls toward the ground, as if gravity were affecting it more. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know what to think. I’d read enough about infidelity to know that a woman can fall into an affair because she’s unhappy, which meant that maybe this was in some way, to a certain extent, my fault.
My self-image didn’t crumble. My life didn’t end. I felt hurt, angry, sad, confused, and I seriously questioned in the darkness of those hours whether I’d chosen the wrong path in life, whether I was the wrong kind of person, whether I should change to be someone else.
That evening, I pretended to be normal. When Sherry tried to talk about the book she was reading, I told her I was concentrating on work, that I had a tough week ahead and couldn’t shake the worry. “I’m sorry, baby. I’m feeling a little quiet.” She went into the bedroom to read. I washed the dishes. I threw in a load of whites and fussed around until after she’d gone to sleep.
In the morning, I dressed quickly, left the house and made my morning calls from the car. I was at the local Holiday Inn by 10AM. It’s an older one, the kind where you can park near your room instead of entering only through the lobby.
Desperate times call for desperate measures. I’m not a good liar. I have a compulsion to tell the truth. I love to share information. That usually works in my job because I tell people what I know and either that helps them genuinely feel a bond with me or they’re nice to me so they can pick up more stuff. I hope it’s the former but I’ve long given up believing that business contacts are actually friends.
“Hi,” I said to the desk clerk. “I think my wife is meeting someone here at 1:30.” He barely reacted. “I think she’s having an affair. I want to see who she’s with.” He looked doubtful. “I just want to watch the security cameras.”
“I can’t do that, sir. All due respect, but you may be a crazy person. This hotel is responsible for guests, not for you. You may try to harm this woman. And I do not know she is even your wife.”
All good points. My first boss had taught me that when you’re going to do something new, when you’re covering new ground, give yourself extra time because nothing happens as planned.