That Fucking Project

I would like to thank neuroparenthetical for editing this piece.

"Sorry, man," the private investigator said with empathy. "I've been in this business for years, but this part never gets any easier." The words hung heavily in the air of his office as I sadly stashed the photos back into the large envelope and stood up. Though I'd seen it coming, it still hit hard.

I shook his hand in silent goodbye and made my way out with leaden steps. Sitting in my car in the parking lot, my mind raced. What now? There was so much to process, so many tough decisions to make.

The sun had long since set by the time I started the engine and began the slow, somber journey home.

They say your entire life can flash before your eyes in a near-death experience. During that ride, I witnessed my marriage unravel, frame by painful frame.

We'd known each other since elementary school and had never strayed far from our hometown. Every place along the way brought back memories: our high school, our favorite restaurant, the movie theater where we'd had our first date, the park where we'd shared our first kiss. Every corner, every street sign felt like a weathered page in our shared storybook.

My suspicions had arisen when I'd noticed the first signs of a change in her behavior. After years of what had typically been a normally dull marriage, she had suddenly become happy, pleased, and light-hearted—too friendly, too pleasant. She'd stopped initiating those senseless arguments and couldn't wipe the damn smile off her face. She'd invested more in her appearance and had increased her workouts at the gym. Her wardrobe and friend list had been updated. She'd become very active and had urged us to go out almost every evening.

She'd been glowing, and I'd had nothing to do with it. It had become increasingly clear that something outside our marriage was fueling a newfound energy in her.

She'd also become more active in bed. During sex, she not only fucked me but also put on a show, showcasing her recently improved skills and stamina.

She'd been chatty, charming, and fun but hadn't been my wife. I'd missed the woman she used to be, so I'd hired a private investigator.

***

Pendi and the kids were seated at the table in the dining room when I arrived home. She looked up, surprised, and exclaimed, "There you are! I've been trying to reach you for hours. Where have you..." Her sentence trailed off as she noticed my expression. "What's wrong?"

I had to muster all my self-control with the kids around. I gave them a stern look and instructed them to go to their room.

After a silent approving nod from their mother, they scooted away. She waited until they were out of earshot before asking anxiously, "What happened?"

Like in a final scene of a Western duel, our eyes locked—mine with the eyes I used to love so much. It took me a moment, but I managed to utter grimly, "I know."

Her expression darkened. "Know what?"

I clenched my teeth and tossed the envelope on the table. My defiant silence, coupled with my steely glare and the thick envelope, conveyed the message. She went pale and appeared saddened. For someone who'd played me for so long, she seemed genuinely distressed, her eyes glistening with moisture.

"You have to believe me," she eventually pleaded, "I do love you."

She vainly awaited a response that didn't come.

"Say something, please," she choked out. "Do you hate me?"

I remained silent, savoring her discomfort.

"Ask me anything, and I'll give you honest answers. Do you want to know why?"

A bitter smile slowly crept on my lips. "Let me guess," I started, "it wasn't about me, but about you. You were lonely during those long days I was out there busting my ass to build us a future. You felt trapped, suffocated by the housewife routine, giving up on your dreams... until, a spark in the darkness. Your fitness instructor became your savior, bringing back the lively girl you thought was long gone, bringing you back to life. It was meaningless, right? Just sex—a remedy, if you think about it, a lifeline in a mid-life crisis—a remedy you had no intention of giving up until you were caught!"

She hung her head, ashamed. "Now what?"

I mulled it over for a bit before muttering, "That fucking project..."

"What was that?"

"Sorry, dear. We just hit the 750-word limit."