C is for Cookie

Steph wasn't there when I got home that Thursday night. I figured she was just running late, no biggie. Not the first time. It's not like we had any major plans. It was the start of a long holiday weekend, but I imagined that we were just going to hang around and relax. She'd be home before long and we'd figure out what to do about dinner.

I called her, but her phone was off for some reason. I left a voicemail telling her that I was home, I loved her, and I'd see her soon. I was starting to get worried when I found the note. She'd left it on the kitchen table, which was not a smart choice. That table is always covered with clutter and we have to clear it off every time we want to use it.

***

Dave,

I'm doing this the coward's way, I admit it. Before I say anything else, I need to make it clear that I know you deserve way better than this from me. I'm very sorry about that. I wanted to say this in person. I tried to, and I almost did, so many times, but I never had the courage and I just couldn't make myself do it.

First, you have to understand that this has nothing to do with you, or how I feel about you. I truly love you, and I always have. Marrying you was the best decision I ever made. I'm so grateful to have you in my life. You are a wonderful husband, a great lover, an amazing father to our children, and the best partner in every way that anyone could ever want. I am unbelievably honored to be your wife, and I hope, above all else, that our marriage can survive what I have to tell you.

I won't be home tonight, or this weekend. I've gone away on a date. Yes. A date, specifically a weekend getaway. I'll be out of town and I'll return Monday afternoon. I'm not going to say who they are, or where we're going. I don't want you to do anything that we'll regret later. This is our first trip away together as a couple, and it's a big step for us. I'm afraid this has been going on for a while. You haven't noticed so far, and it hasn't affected you, or our relationship. If anything, it's been good for us. I've been happier, I appreciate you more for everything you are and everything you're not, and that's made our marriage better.

But I can't deny that I'm powerfully drawn to this other person, I've fallen in love with them without meaning to, and I have to pursue this relationship as well. This is something I need to do for myself, in this season of my life. I desperately hope you will understand, and that you can find a way in your heart to accept the situation and forgive me.

I know you're probably upset. I don't know what to tell you. My feelings for this person are real, and Love is never wrong. I expect this is going to be hard on you. I admit that the situation is not ideal, and I could have handled it much better than I have so far. But it is what it is, and I have no regrets about pursuing this romance. I know I would regret things a whole lot more if I did nothing. I'd spend the rest of my life wondering 'What If...?' and I would never be able to live like that.

Looking back at the choices I've made, I now see that I probably should have given you the chance to participate in the decision to open our marriage to this other person. I can only say in my defense that I was trying to spare your feelings, and I would have embarked upon this relationship regardless of what you had to say. I was worried that you wouldn't be okay, and I thought it would be kinder if you didn't know. Please understand that I haven't done any of it to hurt you.

I really hope you don't decide to destroy our marriage over this. I don't want you to break up our family. I've done what I've done, and there's no undoing it. I suppose you're going to respond however you feel you need to. Maybe you'll ask to separate for a while, or possibly consider an eventual divorce, but that's NOT what I want. I do still love you, with all my heart, and I know that if we work together, we can find our way through this and create a way for us all to live happily and at ease with each other. In a perfect world, you and they would be the best of friends, and co-equal spouses to me, while I could be a loving wife to both of you. Maybe I'm just dreaming, but at this point, I'm no longer afraid to ask for what I need. Even if we can't take things that far, I'm sure there's some arrangement we can come to as mature adults and make things work somehow.

So, please, take these few days, and think carefully about what you want. I'll have my phone turned off, so don't try to call me. I won't call you unless there's an emergency. When I come back on Monday, your feelings of jealousy and anger should have simmered down, and we'll be able to talk calmly and rationally.

I really do love you, Dave. I'm sorry it has to be like this. Try to have a good weekend and take care of yourself. We'll talk on Monday.

All my love, my dear, dear husband,

Your Stephanie

***

You BITCH.

You FUCKING FUCKING BITCH.

God DAMN you.

GOD DAMN YOU.

Jesus Fucking Christ Bullshit SHIT FUCK!!!

"I'm not going to say who they are," BULLSHIT FUCK. I know perfectly well who he is, YOU CUNT. It's that skinny little shitweasel, Lee Davenport, the music teacher at the high school where you're the vice principal, and he's an effeminate little twerp. Fucker always made my skin crawl. God, you must think I'm stupid, you lying, cheating bitch. Trying to deflect my perfectly accurate suspicions with all that gender-neutral language, trying to keep me off-balance, get me wondering if maybe it's a woman. FUCK. God. I never knew what you saw in that guy. He looks like he'd fall over if you breathed on him too hard. 'He's so sensitive,' you'd say. FUCK. The bastard's vegan, and has a gluten sensitivity and irritable bowel syndrome on top of that. You had him over at the house often enough and fussed endlessly over his special food. He barely even ate anything. He got all excited about the peas. Peas. Who the fuck gets excited about eating peas? FUCK.

"You haven't noticed so far, and it hasn't affected you or our relationship," FUCK YOU I haven't noticed. I noticed. I got the shrieking creeps the first time I met him, and it never stopped. Didn't stop you from fawning all over the little shit like a lovesick schoolgirl. He was all you ever talked about for months. You kept inviting him over for dinner because you said 'it's hard for him to make friends.' You play-acted at setting him up with women you know, and asked me for ideas, too, which you always ignored. Then at one point, you declared that he was GAY, and that somehow made him even more attractive to you. You kept reminding me of his gayness so I wouldn't feel threatened, but I knew it was fucking bullshit. He never expressed any interest in anybody but you.

Then, what, like two years ago, you suddenly stopped talking about him so much, to my eternal relief. Don't you dare think I failed to notice that extra little spring in your step, or how you became more affectionate towards me. I tricked myself into believing that our marriage was in better shape, yes, and that's on me. Maybe I attributed it to the little bump we're supposed to get when we become empty nesters. Mike and Jessica were looking at colleges when this started, and I thought you were looking forward to our new freedom. Silly me. You were looking forward to YOUR new freedom, and to hell with me.

Don't you fucking dare tell me that I was never suspicious. Don't you fucking dare tell me that I was never jealous. Don't you fucking dare tell me that I never drove myself batshit fucking crazy worrying about you and him and what you were doing working those extra hours. I did. Believe me, I did. YOU SAW ME. You SAW WHAT YOU WERE DOING TO ME. You called my jealousy 'cute' and 'silly.' You made fun of me for it. YOU MADE FUN OF ME FOR IT. You called me "Insecure." "We're Just Friends," you said. "We're colleagues. We work together. You're imagining things. You Have Nothing To Worry About." That's what you said whenever I so much as twitched an eyebrow about all the time you spent with that scrawny little motherfucker.

No, no, no, you made it clear, it was my job to TRUST you and BELIEVE you and take comfort in the lie that you would never, ever betray me. If I stood up for myself, I would be the one at fault. You used that shit against me like a fucking Nuclear Weapon. We spent the last two years of our marriage playing at brinkmanship, goddamnit. I could never say anything about it because that would have made me BAD. I never called you out on your bullshit because that would mean that I was JEALOUS and POSSESSIVE and a BAD STUPID CRAZY MAN. BAD husband! BAD! God, you called me childish, insecure, and weak. You even had me BELIEVING YOU. I genuinely thought I was losing my mind. That was easier to accept than the possibility you would betray me like that, so completely, and for so long.

You used the kids against me, too. GOD DAMN YOU. If I dared to speak the truth, I would be the bad guy, the one responsible for harming the marriage, for breaking up the family. You abused every scrap of the love and trust I gave you, you tortured it so far past the breaking point that it isn't even funny, you SMUG SELF-RIGHTEOUS GREEDY FUCKING CUNT. And you're STILL AT IT.

What kind of monster are you, that we could go on like that while you thought everything was all right?

Fuck you, Stephanie. Fuck you to death. Fuck you to hell.

***

I paced the house like a caged tiger, screaming at myself in my head, screaming at her, screaming at him. I had my imaginary hands around his imaginary throat strangling the FUCKING life out of him while he turned purple and his eyes bugged out and he DIED in my hands while Stephanie stood by helplessly watching and screaming and crying for me to stop because she loooooves him. I bashed his imaginary brains out against the floor, splattering red and pink. I punched him in the imaginary stomach, cracking his imaginary ribs, and bashed in his stupid imaginary face, breaking his jaw and orbital, sending his stupid overly large imaginary glasses flying away. I stomped on his imaginary hands, shattering all his delicate little bird-bones so he'd never play his fucking piano again.

FUCK.

That letter. That fucking letter. She is so full of shit. She is so delusional. She never meant to talk to me in person about this. I know her too well. She's just telling herself that in order to make herself feel better. She'd have written and rewritten ten different versions of this shit on her laptop, fretting over the exact right phrases, all carefully chosen to look like she's taking responsibility for it without actually doing so, and making me the villain if I can't deal with her shit. She must have spent weeks on it. WEEKS. Then, once she had it perfect, she'd carefully hand-written the whole thing on the good stationary her mother gave her years ago, which we've never used, just so I'd know she was being serious and heartfelt. As if this was meant to be a love letter, or a keepsake.

If there's one good thing to come of this, it's that at least I know I'm not crazy. I've been beating my head against the walls for two years, telling myself that I didn't see what I saw, I didn't believe what I knew, and that I didn't feel what I felt. GOD HELP ME it's almost a fucking RELIEF.

So. Whatever kind of a marriage I had with Stephanie, that's over and done with. It has been for a while. At least now I know where I stand. I've been One of her husbands. My opinions and feelings might have mattered enough to make her lie to me, but not enough to stop her from being a cheating fucking slut whore. I don't even matter enough for her to fucking talk to me. I don't get to know the real deal with my own goddamned marriage. She's just going to say "Yes, okay, I did a bad thing, but it's your problem to deal with now," and the divorce and broken home would be my fault if I don't fall in line with her scheme of cuckolding me and rubbing it in my face.

***

Hours had passed. So had the initial wave of anger, which had flared bright like a match strike, but set off a conflagration that would burn steadily perhaps the rest of my life. Now it was tempered by a deep sadness, the likes of which I've never known.

How COULD she?

HOW COULD SHE?

Was she really that cold? That callous? Did she ever give a shit about me? Not if I got in the way of whatever or whoever else she wanted, I guess. If she had this kind of shit in her, then I never really knew who she was. Twenty-two years of marriage down the shitter, because she just HAD to get her hands on that slimy little shitgoblin's wretched little cock. Never mind how her stupid husband might feel about it. I didn't even DESERVE to be informed until she couldn't avoid it. She STILL hasn't actually spoken to me. I'm just her Dumb, Stupid Fucking Husband who's only getting in the way of Truuuuue Loooooove, and I'm a childish jerk if I don't fold up like a lawn chair. So she'll manage my little boo-hoo temper tantrum later on, once I've cried myself to sleep. FUCK.

Was I really that bad? Did she have to step outside the marriage to get something she needed that I couldn't give her? Couldn't she have talked to me about it? If she wasn't happy, couldn't we have tried going to counseling or something? Did she have to treat me with such disregard? Did she have to write me off so quickly? So ENTHUSIASTICALLY? Goddamnit, Steph. How did we get like this?

What were we going to do with the house? I didn't have anywhere else to live. Not yet. Maybe all that would change. Maybe I'd move. Maybe she would. How was any of this going to work? Why did she have to disrupt our lives like this? FUCK. Oh. Oh God. No. She doesn't want to disrupt our lives at all. She wants to keep going the way she'd been going, still fucking the shitgoblin, but now have it out in the open. Maybe she'd start spending some nights at his place. Maybe she'd want to move him into THIS HOUSE MY HOUSE MY HOME GODDAMNIT and have him be a 'co-equal husband' here. FUCK GODDAMN FUCK.

How could she? How could she think that?

What the hell was wrong with her?

Something I never expected about an experience like this... this, raging, this crying, this whirlwind of thoughts and emotions and anxiety and fear and fuck all I don't even know what... it's EXHAUSTING. I've been pacing the house for seven hours. I feel tired beyond belief, but sleep would be impossible. I haven't eaten since lunch, but I'm not hungry. I'm amazed I haven't thrown up. Maybe I should get drunk, but I can't seem to bring myself to do that either. It would be pointless- I feel drunk already.

Part of my mind is awake enough to realize that I'm following Stephanie's instructions. This is all going according to her plan. Let my emotions burn out while she's safely insulated from them, and then 'we can talk,' at which point she will do her best to get me back under her control.

Fuck. That.

She's treating me like one of the teenagers in her school- they're all rage and pain and hormones, and they have no real options. She lets their feelings dissipate and gets them back on the program. That's a huge mistake, Steph. I AM NOT A CHILD TO BE DEALT WITH. I'm not someone you can manage, or talk down to. You can't pretend the problem is me and my 'immature' feelings. My feelings are one hundred percent mature and appropriate. And yeah, now that I think of it, I've got plenty of options. I'm in a position where I can do a hell of a lot of things you wouldn't like. I can burn down your life just like you've burned down mine.

I'm not cooperating any further. So far, I've been reacting to her blows, with my back against the ropes. No more. I've got the weekend. I've got room to maneuver. I can catch my breath, take my time, consider my options, and make my move. I'm not going to play her game. I'm not going to just sit back and accept it. I'll do something she'd never think of, never expect. I need something totally out of character and she'll have no idea how to handle it. Something beyond the capabilities of a frustrated postadolescent.

I got in my car and just started driving, with no idea of where I was going. I just had to get out of there.

If only I had any clue about what to do.

***

The Diamond Lounge wasn't a great looking place on the best of days, and this was not one of the best of days. At night, though, the dizzying array of light bulbs turned it into a carnival, the paint was bright pink with neon accents, and it looked glitzy and trashy and suitably disreputable. I hadn't been to a strip joint in decades. The last time was Keith's bachelor party, and we were barely old enough to be allowed in. The girls working here now wouldn't even have been born then. God, some of them might even be Jessica's age. I was not sure about any of this.

A large black man was at the door, wearing a tight T-shirt and a suit jacket that he'd somehow squeezed into. Jerome was polite, friendly, and welcoming, and yet somehow let me know in no uncertain terms that there was gonna be absolutely no bullshit tonight. He collected my cover charge and welcomed me inside.

It's a little disorienting walking into a place like that. The bass from the music sounded like a truck with a bad muffler. The lights were red and pink and flashing white and I wasn't sure I wouldn't have a seizure. The girls were walking around in lingerie and clubwear that was even skimpier than lingerie. Some ladies were topless with little pasties or tassels, which was very different from what I usually experience on a Friday night, but it somehow seemed normal after four or five minutes. I visited the ATM in the corner, withdrew what I hoped would be enough, and shuddered at the service fee. I took a seat at the rail, and bought the first of my two-drink minimum from a skinny brunette in a demi-bra and thong. She also traded a couple of twenties for singles and fives for tipping.

The drinks were awful, watered-down shit, but the dancers were good. There was a girl named Aylana who worked the pole like she was on a honeymoon with it, then climbed to the top, flipped over, and slid down head-first at a dangerous speed, stopping at the last possible instant by squeezing the pole between her thighs, her face an inch from the floor. Then Mary did a whole lot of floor work that would have let me test out of a semester of gynecology school. Becky wore just a collar with spikes on it, and had the guys at the rail spanking her, once on each cheek, for five bucks.

Then, there was Candi. She didn't do anything flashy... but the WAY she danced was like a banner in the wind. I wouldn't believe anybody could move like that if they had solid bones. It was hypnotic. Captivating. I was going to remember that for the rest of my life. I watched both her songs with my jaw drooping open. I don't even remember her clothes coming off or how much money I threw at her, but it was probably a lot. Touching her skin as I slipped the bills into her G-string felt like velvet and happiness.

Each of the dancers would come around after their sets, flirt with the big tippers, and try to get them in the private rooms. I didn't do enough to get the attention of the first few girls, but Candi came to me straight away after her set. She slid into my lap and for the first time I noticed that she was tiny- barely five feet tall, and if she weighed more than a hundred pounds, it wasn't by much. Her presence, though, filled the entire room. Her green eyes, even in the dim rose-tinted light, sparkled like gemstones.

"Hi! Thank you for being so generous. Did you like my dancing?"

"Yes. That was incredible. I've never seen anything like that."

"I'm glad to hear it! My name's Candi. What's yours?"

"Dave."

"Nice to meet you, Dave," she said, blinking her inch-long false eyelashes at me. Then her eyes caught mine and I thought I saw something else for a quarter of a second. Her professional facade had a crack in it, and on the other side, there was something else. She leaned in close, slid into my lap, then spoke softly into my ear.