Should I Stay or Should I Go

750 words in a fun vignette. Nothing to heavy, no dialogue, no sex, no BTB or RAC and the customary absence of a willing cuckold. This is the song title story that I am required to deliver as an author in this genre.

As ever, please pay in constructive criticism, the coin that I value. I do have other stories written, longer fuller tales that I am currently editing and will share with you once I feel they merit your time.

Should I stay or should I go?

Jean Buridan sat at a small table outside a quiet café overlooking Marseille harbour. Yesterday he'd discovered his wife Âne, was indulging in a furtive cinq à sept relationship with a colleague. He hadn't known. Hadn't suspected. He thought his marriage, a happy one. He hadn't realised a metaphorical snake had come in his Garden of Eden.

He gave his order to the jeans and tee shirt clad young man who was acting as waiter. An Americano with a freshly baked cinnamon roll were duly delivered with surly grace. He turned his mobile phone face down so he was free from digital distractions. He needed to think, ruminate and cogitate. The late morning sunlight dappled the narrow, cobbled street and he watched as the people passed by, busy with the mundanity of their lives.

He'd spoken with her. Of course. Challenged her. A tense, angry confrontation where his pain spilled into hurtful, harsh words. To no discernible effect. She wasn't going to give up her lover, didn't see why she should. She was sorry that he was hurt, upset by what she was doing, but not enough to stop. This was something for her, something outside of them, something that didn't, shouldn't affect their marriage. She still loved him, wanted to be with him. She wasn't going to leave. This thing was a moment in time, nothing more. Nothing to get upset about. They'd gone to bed, a cold wall between them.

The ball was in his court. A dilemma worthy of Solomon. A Gordian knot pulled tight. A three pipe problem.

Would his apathy triumph? Could he stand that smug look of satisfaction as she returned from him? Could he handle the doubts, sloppy seconds, the shame of not being enough for her? Although she'd never said that he wasn't. Could he cope with the questions that his wife's behaviour raised? The hateful voice in his head would get the ammunition it needed from this tortuous tableau to torment him forever. How long would he be second best for if he accepted the situation? How many more lovers would she hoist upon him in the future, now that he'd showed that he could, would live with it? A life sentence of cuckolding, potentially.

Was it better to leave? Surrender to his roaring red anger. Wave a jaunty farewell to the indifferent sex, affectionate companionship and glorious cooking. Admit defeat and slink away from their years together. Accept that he lost. Putting a brave face on her betrayal and build a new life on his own. He knew he didn't want to. He didn't want to go to the gym and tone up or to bars hunting for lovers. He couldn't be bothered with Tinder and romance. Dating was never something he'd enjoyed and he didn't fancy diving back into the singles pool. The best thing about marriage after all, was not having to date again.

Potentially shit either way. Hard to decide which would be worst. He sipped the scalding coffee as he began to ponder a more positive future.

Imagine he stayed. His wife returning home, grateful for acceptance of her mid-life indulgence. Eager to show her appreciation to the man she loved. Say thank you properly. Show him a benefit knowing that he was coping with a situation she had instigated. Perhaps this was the lift their marriage needed. Jealousy fuelling a renewed passion. Uninvited competition demanding an upping of his game. Or maybe a lover would teach new tricks she'd want to share. How to enjoy anal or learning to give a decent blowjob to completion.

That scenario balanced against the chance to meet new women. The opportunity to trade up. To get a better wife. Younger, firmer, more open to experimentation. A woman who knew that the key to a man's heart wasn't through his stomach but rather soapy titwanks and sloppy blowjobs. A sexy woman who was witty, urbane, wealthy and intelligent. Everything his wife wasn't. Loyal.

Both futures equally compelling or equally bleak. A coin toss or a dice roll wouldn't cut the mustard, not for a decision like this. And yet he had to do something. Not deciding meant returning home to the status quo and that indecision was a decision in itself.

Jean Buridan didn't know what to do with his Âne. But biting into the still warm cinnamon roll, he knew he wasn't going to starve to death, trying to figure it out.