I Should Have Known

JOHN’S STORY

Sort of strange, now that I look back on it, at the signs, I should have known from the start.

Leah and I had married 12 years ago, I was 32, she was 28. We’d both been around the block a few times. We said we knew what we wanted, said it was each other, and meant it, at least I did, and I honestly believe she did, at the time. Leah is often mistaken for a younger person. She has dark brown hair. It is almost black in some lights though and can reflect lights at night. She is 5'4" tall, and through much effort at the gym, has retained the figure I’m sure she had in her early twenties, although I wasn’t around to admire it at that time. I am also in good shape because of constant work-outs at the club. My name is John Malcolm.

The first sign I got was when I came home from an out of town book signing tour. I’m a writer and as we all must, we travel from reading to reading to tout our books. Any rate, when I got back she was all over me. Now I know what you’re going to say, “that’s a problem?” I didn’t think so either. But, I should have thought further. You know, after the 10 year mark it gets kinda routine on Tuesdays and Saturdays. Occasional Friday nights, too. She lays there, I get on top. If I really do a good job, and she comes then maybe we do doggie. Quite suddenly she was all over me, 13 straight days we made love, no that’s the wrong term, we fucked. Her on top, sliding up and down, up and down. Facing me, turned away so I watch her ass go up and down. Doggie, Sidewinder, thumb fucks, head, cunnilingus, she swallowed!!! I was sore, man. Sore I tell you. Then it stopped. And it didn’t start up again. When I mentioned it to her, after a week, when the soreness had gone away, she said she’d been busy at work and was not in the mood and got a headache, and a sore throat. To be honest with you, I didn’t think anything about it until the second weekend with zero tu tu.

The second sign was a letter that came in the mail. As is routine, I open all the mail, throw away the junk and the envelopes that everything comes in, and place them in a silver dish we use for that purpose so that Leah can look through them when she gets home. I never open her mail. It just so happens that one letter addressed to her I opened by mistake, from a jeweler.

It was a thank you letter from a rather expensive jeweler in town, and it was addressed to my wife. I couldn’t take my eyes off it. Had she bought me a gift? My birthday was coming up so I assumed she’d done just that, and remember speculating about what kind of jewelry she’d bought for me. Well, she had bought me a gift, but it wasn’t jewelry. And it wasn’t from the jewelry store.

I forgot about it because I was busy on another novel, and novels have a way of capturing your every thought, every dream. I think I must have assumed she’d bought something for herself, or had something repaired. You have to realize, she earns a good living, and pays her own bills. I looked at this one by accident and I couldn’t very well say anything to her without her thinking ’d been prying could I?

The third sign was a call from her secretary asking to speak to her when she wasn’t there. Sarah, her secretary, insisted she’d been coming home early.

I gave the message to Leah, of course, when she’d come home that night, somewhat later than usual. To my amazement, Leah blushed as she waved her hand in dismissal. I hadn’t seen Leah blush since I'd made that awful pass I’d made at her the first time I’d seen her. I’d always assumed she’d been embarrassed for me. That was what threw me, the blush.

When she’d gone to bed, I’d checked the dirty clothes hamper, but there was no tell-tale semen stains, no other hairs than her own, no masculine smells adhering. Ever been there, kneeling on the floor, going through the dirty clothes, looking for incriminating evidence, deathly afraid that she’s going to come in and catch you?

I tried to put it out of my mind, I’d read all those erotic stories when the panties were come encrusted because they couldn’t wash up, short of time or inconvenient, or if they could, and did, that some would leak out afterwards anyway.

But I couldn’t work. I couldn’t do anything right. I started having anxiety attacks.

Next day, frustrated beyond reason, I rented a car for a week, one she wouldn’t recognize. I was totally embarrassed when I entered the spy shop to buy a pair of phony glasses and a stick on mustache. I was so afraid someone I knew would see me in this store.

I drove to her business in the rental, with all my phony appendages, and waited. Or began surveillance if you prefer. I felt so stupid. Although I don’t usually read the mail, and especially not her mail, Leah does pay close attention to mine. She’s a C.P.A. and she inspects every bill we get before paying it. She takes care of the book work, you see. How was I going to explain the charge for the rental?

At noon, Leah came out, got in her car and drove to lunch. She ate alone. She drove back to work. That night she drove home. I entered just as soon as I’d parked down the street and left my disguise in the trunk. We ate dinner and went to bed. Me on top, her on bottom, looking bored. Afterward I went downstairs to work, and worked.

The next day was the same, but she went to bed before me and there was no sex. I worked that night and slept in the next morning.

But, that next day, I couldn’t work again so I walked to where I’d parked the car, got out my disguise and donned it as I drove to Leah’s business address. At lunch she came out and got in her car and drove to one of the more deluxe hotels. I entered behind her and watched her walk into the dining room. I went to the bar, which is to the side of the dining room but has a door that leads into it and seated myself so that I could see her join a handsome young man, several years her and my junior. She smiled as she joined him and they kissed, I thought a little fervently. They ordered and the waiter brought them glasses of champagne. I tried to remember the last time I'd bought her a glass of champagne while they toasted, sipped, put the glasses down and kissed again. Definatly longer, and seemingly more passionate than I thought was casual.

Leah laughed a lot as they had lunch and I finished two beers at the bar. The bartender leaned over the bar when he brought my second beer and said, “robbing the cradle,” nodding at my wife and the young man, “isn’t she?”

“She looks pretty young to me,” I said. Prideful and heartbroken.

“She’s not that young,” he said, dashing me.

“Could be platonic,” I replied.

“Ha!” He laughed. “”He’s the assistant manager of the hotel, my friend. He tells me she’s the greatest piece of ass he’s ever had. You ought to see the watch she bought him.”

“No shit,” I muttered as he scoffed and walked away, polishing glasses.

I turned back to the table to see them get up and leave it, holding hands. I paid my tab quickly and followed. I rushed, meaning to stop what seemed bound to happen. I got to the lobby in time to see them get onto an elevator. She didn’t look my way, and rush as I might, I couldn’t make it in time. It was an old hotel, with an old elevator. It had lighted numbers above the doors to show what floor, or floors it stopped on. It looked to me they’d been on the elevator alone. I impatiently waited as it stopped at the sixth floor. Then it slowly descended back to the first floor. I entered and paced anxiously as I waited for it to take me up to that floor. When I got up there, of course, the hallway was empty and although I stopped at each room door I heard nothing. I finally gave up and went down to my car in the lot and waited. Frustrated and angry. In a little over an hour she came out and drove back to work. I could tell nothing by her appearance but I was now convinced that my wife was having an affair. She’d had time to do it, shower, dress and come down. Maybe he had no staying power. The young twerp.

I drove around for awhile. What to do. Raise hell? Confront her at her business? Go in there screaming? All these things seemed so out of character to me. I finally made up my mind to do something that was in character. I called her with my cell and asked how she was doing.

“I’m fine, this is a surprise, what’s up?”

My question, I thought, but I’m sure it wasn’t up anymore. Still, he is young.

“I’m near your place and I know it’s late but I thought I might buy you a late lunch if you haven’t eaten yet.”

“Oh, but I have. I just got back. I’m sorry. I’ve got a very busy afternoon.”

“That’s alright. I need to get a bite though, where’d you go?”

“Oh, to the soup place. I ate light. But you don’t like that kind of thing do you?”

“No. I’m still the hotel kind of guy. I saw a good one near your work. I’ll try that.”

I heard her hesitation, but what could she say. “Oh, Okay. Have a good lunch.”

“I will. If I’m still around, how about dinner, tonight. I might be tied up this afternoon.” Leah works about an hours ride from home.

“Call me later.”

“I will. Later.” And I hung up., tapping the phone on my jaw.

I went home, parking the rental at a different location. I showered, dressed and drove back to her work area later that afternoon. As I drove, my own car this time, no disguise, I made dinner reservations at the hotel, and I called her. We agreed that I’d pick her up after work. It would give us time for a drink before dinner.

I picked her up and drove straight for the hotel.. I was telling her, “I really enjoyed my lunch here so I thought we’d try it for dinner.” I parked as she looked as if she’d like to say something but she in the end said nothing.

“It’s been a long time since we’ve been out to dinner during the week, hasn’t it.” I said as we walked toward the hotel entrance. “Sort of nice, just like when we first dated.

“Yes.” She admitted, with a hesitant smile.

I took her arm and led her into the bar, saying “our reservations are for seven. We have time for a drink first,” as I smiled at the bartender’s gaping mouth as he stared at her.

We ordered drinks, doubles I told the bartender, and Leah kept giving him some kind of gloances like, "don't recognise me," I suppose:. but he just mixed and delivered our drinks. I could see him appraising me out of the corner of his eye, but he didn't recognise me, and went back to polishing his glasses.

It was after six o’clock and I know he got relieved soon. His relief bartender entered the bar and they were whispering and laughing at the other end of the bar.

Leah picked up her drink. She downed half of it. She looked very flushed. ‘ “You look a little flushed, Hon, sick? Temperature?”

“No, I don’t think so.” She finished her gin and tonic. They were strong, I had hardly touched mine. I motioned to the new bartender to refill hers I had a feeling she was going to need it soon..

“She leaned towards me, and whimpered, “I don’t like this hotel.”

“Really, I thought you said you knew nothing about it.”

"I don’t. I mean, I was here for lunch once, with a client, that’s all.”

I watched her closely, “I can see if they can seat us early.”

"I’d rather just go,” she said.

I smiled, I couldn’t help it, I’d started to enjoy myself at her expense.

“We can’t do that, Leah, I’ve made reservations.” At least if she was going to have funsy's up stairs, then I am gonna have some downstairs.

I cut her off as she was about to say something else, “and I had lunch here too, remember. The food is very good.”

Just then the maitre de entered calling us.

“Our table must be ready,” I said as I walked off to talk to the man. He confirmed that he could seat us now, so I motioned Leah to join us and we were led to a table overlooking the garden.

“Isn’t this nice,” I said to her cloudy features.

A waiter approached our table with menus.

“My name is Horace, I’ll be serving you tonight.”

He handed a menu to Leah first, then the other to me with the wine list.

He continued, “could I get a refill from the bar for either of you?”

Leah was looking at her menu, and finishing her second drink. The double I’d ordered her both times were flushing her more. I figured she was getting pretty high by now.

“Would you like another,” I asked her, raising my eye brows disapprovingly.

“No,” she slurred slightly. “I’ll wait for the wine now.”

I turned back to Horace, “I’m going to have beef, Horace, what kind of wine do you suggest?”

Horace smiled down at me, “Trust me, Sir.”

“I will do that, Horace.”

Leah was looking around, then suddenly pulled her menu up in front of her face.

I looked around too. It was easy to see why she’d buried her head in the menu, the assistant manager was at the front desk talking to a group of men. I looked back to her menu again. That’s all I could see. I was wondering what the twerp’s name was.

The waiter approached with our bottle of wine. I tasted it. It was good. I nodded at him. He poured Leah a glass, and then poured mine, and he left us alone with our lack of conversation.

I looked at the menu again, hers that is, the back of it.

Finally I spoke, “Leah?” and when she didn’t look up, “Leah, will you look at me please?”

After a moment, she lowered the menu and looked at me. It was so obvious that she was ill at ease, maybe truly ill, and I really couldn’t blame her.

“How was your day,” I asked nonchalantly.

She laughed, somewhat hysterically, and then she seemed to get a hold of herself, “How was my day?” Her voice, still slightly eratic rose toward the end of the question.

She looked down at her drink, then lifted the glass and finished it. She set down the empty glass, looking down at the table, then picked up her glass of wine. “My day was great. Absolutely great.” She stared at me. Was she guessing that I know what’s going on?

“That’s good. I had a terrible day. Everything I believe in came into doubt today. I wasn’t able to work at all.”

“What were your meetings about?”

She’d somehow missed my sarcastic comment about my belief system falling apart.

“I had no meetings,” I confessed. "I couldn’t work so I came down to buy you lunch and I was too late for that, and then I decided to buy you dinner and now you don’t seem to be enjoying yourself here. I feel like the day’s been a waste. Know what I mean?”

I’m sure she hadn’t heard anything I said. I started to say I was going to have a quiz later, but I noticed she was staring over my shoulder now, and beyond me. I followed her eyes and watched the assistant manager crossing the room beaming at Leah.

“Leah, what a nice surprise,” he gushed as he reached our table.

Leah blushed, “Hello, Mr. Saul, let me introduce my husband,” she said quickly, indicating me, but looking at him. “John Malcolm.”

He turned to me, stretching out his hand, very much in control, “of course, the writer. I’m a fan”

I stood and took his hand. “Never can have too many,” I said.

He dropped my hand. “I’m Charles Saul.” He turned to Leah, “I had no idea you were married to such a famous figure.

I smiled at him as politely as possible. Then I watched Leah as I asked, “So, how do you know my wife?”

I glanced at him. He looked suddenly apoplectic. He almost sputtered, but Leah came to his rescue. Their rescue I suppose.

“Tom comes to me for his taxes,” she blushed. I was beginning to see that she was a poor liar. Bit she was still, drunk or not, the fast thinker I’d always known her to be.

“Yes,” he said. Agreeing with her. They were so delightful that day.

“Well, you read my books and frequent my wife, uh, my wife’s business. I don’t know how I’ll ever thank you enough."

The expression on his face was priceless. “Well, you’ll never lose me.” He said. “It was very nice to meet you. I hope you will come back, and I’ll see you again.”

He left us and I sat down again. “You have very nice customers,” I told Leah.

She didn’t respond, and was saved by Horace coming to take our orders.

That night, at home, was the quietest night of my life. Leah feigned exhaustion, or, come to think of it, maybe the day had worn her out. She went to bed early and left me wondering.

I’d never questioned my existence before. There were a lot of questions:

Q. Am I in love with Leah?

A. Yes, dammit, I still am. (Pitiful huh?)

Q. Should I confront her with the information.

A. What would I say. I have no proof. No tell-tale signs. No pictures. What do I gain that way. Isn’t she just going to laugh at me?

Q. Should I throw her out?

A. It is my house, bought and paid for before I married her. I could do that, I suppose, but without repercussions?

Q. Can I live with what I know?

A. I don’t know.

Q. Does it excite me? Her having an affair? ’ve read all those stories about that very thing.

A. Regrettably, no. It doesn’t give me an erection. It wilts me.

Q. Why? Does he have a giant penis? Mine is slightly over six inches and I always seemed to fillher and hit bottom too.

A. How can I answer that. That's up to her to answer.

Q. Am I insecure?

A. No. I’m not. But this quandary is definantly affecting my work. I don’t like that.

Q. What do I do? What to do?

A. I don’t honestly know. All I know is I'm mad, and damned scared.

I fell asleep on the couch and woke at 2 A.M. with Leah standing over me, crying. I held her. Calmed her. Went to bed with her and cuddled with my love.

PART TWO

Leah’S STORY

I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that John, my husband, loves me. I can see it in his eyes. I can feel it in his touch. I love him too. So why was I so unhappy, so frustrated. How did I ever come to this? How did I become this thing that I am. A cheat.

I found John asleep on the couch tonight at 2 A.M.. There were dried tears on his cheeks and I felt so guilty. So very guilty. I looked down at him and I knew he knew.

Then I woke him and took him to bed. We held each other and I dried his tears. Then he fell asleep, cuddled in the spooning position. But I couldn’t sleep.

John is an amazing man. Sensitive. A successful writer. He has to travel but that’s not an excuse. And if it isn’t, then what is?

I know, I’ve heard the stories, too. The ten year itch. Mine was at twelve years. I’m forty years of age, for God’s sake. I’d been happy with John. I don’t know what was driving me . Why this had to happen.

It only began six weeks ago. John was off again, on a book signing. I was invited to a party. I‘d had a couple of drinks. Bull shit, no excuses. Charles was a cutie, a young, complimenting sweety. It made me feel young again to be with him, to be complimented by him.

“I love that perfume,” he’d said.

“Your skin is so soft,” he’d said.

“Your hair has lights in it, reflecting from the chandelier” he’d said. I have mousey hair. No one had ever complimented me on it. I ate it up.

“So few women have your kind of humor,” he’d smiled..

He’d complimented my dress, my figure, my “deep grey- brown eyes”, my shoes, my nail polish, and my lipstick (“so kissable", he’d confided).

We danced, and he was a marvelous dancer (John had always been an elephant on the dance floor).

After several fast dances, and then a tango, I thought he might be the best, most sensuous dancer I’d ever partnered with. Then came the soft slow one. There had been several cocktails. He’d held me close. I’d felt his erection. It was firm against my leg. I closed my eyes and remembered my prom dance, when this exact feeling had come over me before. I felt young again. I felt horney.

When I’d gotten home I’d been wet. I threw my panties in the hamper and got new ones. It was all I could do to keep my hands off myself.

I’d forgotten about it by the next day. I had a hangover.

Then the phone calls began. I guess I’d given him my business phone number, and it turned out he worked nearby at a hotel. He invited me to lunch, and invited me, and invited me. I’d honestly tried to dissuade him, but I hadn’t told him to stop calling.