Dirty Little Secret

Dear Stan,

I would say this is the hardest letter I've ever had to write, but I don't think it's going to be all that hard. Even though we haven't been married long, everyone in this apartment complex knows I'm your wife, even people I've never met. And a surprising number of them know your dirty little secret. At least, they do now.

I'd suspected for a few weeks now that you've been screwing around on me. All those "Sorry, honey, working late" emails, all the supposedly prank phone calls where the caller hung up as soon as they heard my voice. It was classic. You aren't even creative enough to have an affair without doing the same thing every man who's ever screwed around has ever done. But even as stereotypical as the signs were, I denied what I was seeing. I loved you, and I was dumb enough to think you loved me. Note the past tense.

How many nights did I fall asleep waiting for you to come home? Your office might ask people to work late once in a while, but there's no way in hell they have people working there till ten or eleven at night. There were a couple times you didn't get home till after midnight! But you always had a good excuse. Your boss took you out for drinks, the trains were running late, you fell asleep at your desk. You became a bullshit master, and I believed every single word because I couldn't stand to think of any other possibility.

But then, a few nights ago, you were with her all night. You didn't think I knew that, did you? For once, I didn't fall asleep early. I was up all night that night, and you were nowhere to be found. I called your cell, but you didn't answer. I was panicking; I thought you might have been in an accident or something else might have happened to you. Early the next morning, you emailed and said that once again, you'd fallen asleep at your desk. But I knew that was a lie, because I'd called your desk phone too. A cleaner answered. I don't know what he was doing answering your phone, but he told me he and his crew were the only ones in the office.

I still hoped I was wrong, though. Love really is blind, I guess. Especially when you came home that night and fucked me silly. I swear that was the best sex we'd ever had. But it wasn't because you wanted to, was it? It was because you were trying to take my attention off your secret life.

But now I know the truth. One of our neighbors, Shelly, I think her name is, stopped me at the grocery store today. "I'm sorry to have to tell you this," she said, "But we all feel you should know Stan's cheating on you."

"Who's all?" I asked.

"A few of us from the complex."

"Stan can't be cheating." Even with all the evidence, even though I knew Shelly wouldn't lie to me, I still didn't want to believe it.

"Honey, he is. We saw him. A few of us went out to dinner at Caprio's the other night, and he was there with her."

I was stunned. Not only have you been cheating, but you haven't even bothered trying to hide it from anyone. Except me. Not too bright, are you, Stan?

"What did she look like?" I asked.

"She's almost as tall as Stan, hair the same color as his but shoulder-length, and she has a mole by her left eye."

I knew right away who she was talking about, and I thought I was going to be sick. Your sister, Stan? What kind of fucked-up pervert screws around on his wife with his own sister? You are one sick fuck! I tried to convince myself that you'd just taken her out for an innocent dinner, but Shelly told me how your hands were all over your sister's legs. And she said the kiss you gave your sister was anything but brotherly.

Then Shelly's husband came over and asked what we were talking about. When we told him, he said, "Oh. Sorry to say it, but I saw them going at it in Stan's car when we left the restaurant."

Going at it in a parking lot? Steve, you're fucking sick! And you and I are through. Maybe we could have worked things out if she'd been just another woman, but I can't accept this. I'd want to vomit every time I saw you or your sister. So here's what's going to happen. I'm keeping the apartment and everything in it, except your personal belongings. You'll come over Friday and get that shit out; I don't want any reminders of you left here. And since I also don't want to see your face again, Shelly and her husband have volunteered to come over and supervise you. Meanwhile, I'll be at the courthouse filing the divorce papers. When you get your copies, you'll agree to everything I ask for. Otherwise, everyone will find out just how sick you really are, including your parents. I hope you and your sister are miserable together.

Nope, this letter wasn't hard to write at all.