The Thunderbolt

Remember that scene in The Godfather when Michael Corleone sees a beautiful woman in Italy and kind of goes into a stupor? His two Sicilian bodyguards see it and start talking about how he's been hit by "the thunderbolt" and he's lost in love.

That's not just a made-up movie thing. I've seen it first-hand, although at the time I wasn't aware of what it was. It happened to my wife. Unfortunately for me, it didn't happen to her upon meeting me. It happened with another man 25 years after we were married, and was the beginning of the end of what I thought was a perfect life.

I'm getting ahead of myself. I do that when I think of my former life and how things were supposed to go, but didn't. I suppose I should start at the beginning, and introduce myself.

I'm Allan Gregorson; everyone calls me Greg. I'm 50 years old and I live in a small Midwestern city about two hours from Chicago. I'm an accountant for a pretty big national firm. It's kind of mind-numbing work, but the pay is great and, with the exception of March and April, the hours are usually right on the money at 40, with no weekends.

I was married up until two years ago. My ex and I had one child together, a daughter, Morgan, who's 25, married, has one child, and lives in Denver.

My ex and I wound up a divorce statistic after 26 years of marriage, the first 25 of which I thought were wonderful, as I already told you. I met Traci at Iowa State University in Ames, IA, in the fall of my sophomore year. She was also a sophomore, but had transferred into my dorm after her freshman year in another dorm. I spotted her lithe, athletic body outside the dorm, lying on a towel soaking up some of Iowa's strong August sunshine. I was walking into the dorm with some friends when I spotted her out of the corner of my eye.

"Guys, I gotta go. I'm about to introduce myself to the future Mrs. Gregorson," I said, not entirely in jest.

The two friends I was with followed my gaze to Traci.

"Wow," said one of them. I heard the words, but I couldn't tell you which one of them was talking. I was totally taken with this blonde goddess lying on a towel in a bikini off to the side of the dorm.

I just left my two friends and went over to introduce myself, but when I got about four feet from her, she got up on one elbow and starting waving me off with her other hand. I was crushed, until she spoke up.

"Hey, dumbass, you're in my sun!"

I immediately jumped about a foot to my right, which allowed the sun to fall back onto my goddess. She lit me up with a megawatt smile, and at that moment I might have committed any crime she wanted me to.

"Much better, dumbass," she giggled.

She didn't seem uncomfortable with a strange guy approaching her. I guess when you look like that it probably happens all the time. I introduced myself to her, told her I thought she was beautiful, and asked her out on a date for the next Friday night.

"If I say yes will you wipe the drool off of your chin?" she asked coyly.

"Wh-what? Yes, the drool, the drool. Sure, gone immediately," I responded like a lummox in heat.

"Well, I can definitely see you're not one of the slick ones with a line for everything, so sure, we can go out on Friday night."

I got her phone number. We hit a small Italian place in Ames that Friday night, and while I sat there like a lovestruck puppy, she proceeded to tell me everything about her life from the time she was 3 years old until the present. I think she only stopped talking because the main course was finally served.

We just seemed to click, and inside of a month we were together almost constantly during our free time. Not only was she smart (she was her high school's valedictorian) but she had a puckish sense of humor and a quiet confidence.

I felt I was a decent-looking guy, nothing world class, but I was fairly athletic (seven varsity letters in high school), smart (top five in my high school), and I could carry on an intelligent conversation about a broad base of topics. Although as Traci pointed out I wasn't one of those guys with a slick line for everything, I was pretty confident in myself. But I knew I was reaching way over my pay grade when I asked her out. Hey, you get nothing if you don't ask, right?

Traci and I had our first sex on our sixth date. Neither one of us were virgins, but I know I hadn't had more than a handful of partners to that point, and I kind of got the impression that it was the same thing for Traci. But despite my relative inexperience, I had a secret weapon: I actually read the articles in Playboy, not just looked at the pictures. A lot of those articles focused on sex and pleasing a woman, not just having sex to get your rocks off. I paid special attention to those articles; some I read twice. Not a lot of men were doing oral sex on women in the '70s and '80s. I made it a staple of my lovemaking, and judging by the number of screaming orgasms I was able to get out of a woman, I must have been pretty good at it.

A major thank you here to the late, great Hugh Hefner. Not only did he have the best nude women in his mags, but I was introduced to great writers like John Updike and Alex Haley and was also taught that sex is a two-way street.

Traci and I got married soon after we graduated. We both found jobs easily, she as a third grade teacher and me as an accountant. We had good solid incomes, bought a house a couple of years later and had our only child, a daughter, almost a year to the day we moved into the house.

Life was good. Our sex life, while not being anything wild, was varied and plentiful enough for both of us, although like many couples, time and age does take its toll on the frequency. Still, when Morgan left for college, we were still going at it with gusto three or four times a week.

Through the years, I had my moments where I worried about Traci being true to me, but those were very few and far between. Like she might say something about one of the new young teachers in her school being a little flirty, but she never gave me any indication that she ever responded back or anything went further, so I always attributed that to my own paranoia. I mean, I'm not blind, the woman is still hot, and I couldn't blame any man for at least taking another look at her - but just a look. There's no sharing in my world. I made that quite clear to Traci way back when we first became exclusive. She responded in kind, telling me she felt the same exact way. She didn't mind if I looked at another woman, but if there was ever any touching, there would be hell to pay. I was more than OK with that.

And that's the way things were until three years ago.

We were at the annual summer party put on by our neighbors three doors down in our trendy neighborhood. Scott and Wendy Harris always put on an all-day bash at their place the weekend after the Fourth of July. Traci and I attend every year, as do most of the neighbors on the block, and we always have a great time. Scott and Wendy are excellent hosts, the food and booze are great, they have a large in-ground pool and a sand volleyball court. Even the outsiders they invite are good people ... with one exception ... but again, I'm getting ahead of myself.

The party starts at noon, and Traci and I wandered over about 1. I went to the bar, got a white Zinf for Traci and a Michelob for myself, and we started mingling, at first together, then we separated as we each got absorbed in the various conversations going on both inside and outside of the house. Never an issue before ...

Every now and then I'd check back in with Traci to see if she needed a refill, a plate of munchies, whatever. Sometimes she would find me. We usually left each other with a quick peck on the lips.

I was talking with a group of male neighbors and Traci was just across the yard talking with a group of women, when a small group of outsiders showed up in the yard. It was a man with two women, and Scott went up to greet the trio. And that's when I saw "the thunderbolt" hit Traci. After looking at the new trio, I just happened to look at Traci, who had stopped talking to her friends and was intently watching the new people, with a look on her face that I can now say was a cross between amazement and pure lust. I really didn't have a clue as to what kind of look it was at the time, only that she looked awestruck, and I have to admit my "spider senses" started tingling. She watched the trio for about 10 seconds, then she turned in my direction, spotted me, looked me directly in the eyes, and blushed a deep red. She then turned back to her friends and got involved in the conversation again.

Did you ever get one of those funny feelings that things aren't quite right with the world, but you can't put your finger quite on what's not right? That's the feeling I got about an hour later, and I didn't feel any better when I scanned the yard and couldn't find Traci. I went to the bar and picked up a white wine for her and started to wander around, and finally found her in the Harris's den with four other people, including the guy who Traci had been gawking at earlier. In fact, he had his arm casually draped around my wife's back, with his hand resting on her right hip. That looked way too comfortable for me, especially considering she had apparently just met this guy, and the five of them seemed to be in friendly conversation.

I'm confident in myself and was completely trusting of my wife, and I didn't want to cause a scene, but I felt this was just a little too hands-on for the newcomer. I approached the group from behind Traci and her new pal, and I put a solid grip on his wrist as I removed it from her hip.

"I don't believe we've met yet, despite the fact that you obviously feel way too comfortable with my wife," I said with a hard edge to my voice.

He started to spin away from me, but the death grip I had on his wrist prevented him from going anywhere. Traci, who appeared to be flushed before I went up to the group, got even redder when she realized I was right there.

"Oh, Greg, please!" she kind of squealed when she realized I was squeezing the offending wrist. "Greg, this is Charles Delane, he teaches European literature at the college. He started there last year. He's French, he didn't do anything out of line, so I just left his hand where it was."

The others in the group were nodding their assent, so I let go of Charles' wrist and grabbed his hand in a firm handshake, crushing a few of the middle hand bones together as I did so. Traci then introduced me to the others in the group, kind of like an afterthought.

"Thought you might need a refill," I said to her as I handed her the glass of wine while looking directly at Charles.

"You are so considerate, my dear husband," she replied.

Charles - pronounced the French way - "Sharl" - looked like typical Euro-trash to me. I have to admit he was a fairly good-looking guy of about 32, about 6 foot tall and 170 pounds, with a three-day growth of a spindly beard and was somewhere between having long hair and needing a haircut. He had the full French accent on his English, and I thought to myself that he was probably sleeping with half of his students - both the females and males. After the introductions, he went back to expounding on Victor Hugo or somebody, and satisfied that I had made my presence felt, I wandered back outside to the yard.

Traci and Charles made it to the back yard for the start of the sand volleyball. I was always a major player in these games, and as we played "winner's court," my team spent a lot of time playing. We always had a pretty good crowd watching from the safety of the deck, and that's where my wife settled with Charles right next to her. I was a little busy with what was going on in the games to pay a lot of attention to the pair, but I did notice a lot of hand and arm touching, smiling, and an occasional blush from my wife. I would occasionally wave over to her, and she would wave back.

My team had won several games and was still holding the court an hour later when I noticed that Traci and Charles were no longer in their seats. I glanced at the bar and at the grill area and didn't see them either. My spider senses were tingling to beat the band, so I got one of the other guys to sub in for me, telling my team that my 47-year-old legs were getting tired and that I badly needed a beer. I took a lot of good-natured "old man" ribbing as I left the sand.

To keep up the pretense, I headed over to the bar and got another Mich, then I meandered around the yard for a bit before heading into the house. I went through every room that was opened and I listened very hard at the doors of the two rooms that were closed, but I neither saw nor heard Traci - nor Charles. I finally meandered over to the hostess, Wendy, and innocently asked if she'd seen my wife in the last few minutes.

"Yeah, she and Charles went out to look at something in his car, I think," Wendy answered offhandedly.

"What does he drive?" I inquired somewhat testily.

That's when the light bulb went on above Wendy's head. We'd been neighbors and friends for more than 15 years. She got a very concerned look on her face and she answered, "gray Saab."

I ducked outside and look both ways down the street. No Saab in sight. Just then Wendy joined me in the driveway.

"I'm sure it's nothing, Greg," she said in her most soothing voice. "They probably just popped over to the college for a sec."

"Yeah, thanks. Probably nothing," I said without much conviction. I turned and walk off.

The local college was five minutes from the house. I'd go see for myself. I drove over to the school and drove through every parking lot they had. No Saab.

I called Traci's cell. It went straight to voice mail, which meant that she was either talking to someone else or it was turned off. I left a message. I left four more messages over the next hour as I sat in my house. I also called her parents and her sister, asking if they had heard from her today. They all said no. The old Sherlock Holmes quote came to mind - "Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth."

I crawled into my La-Z-Boy in the family room and stared at the blank big screen for hours. I didn't need to turn on the TV to see any images, because in my mind's eye I could see my gorgeous wife being fucked silly by this French bastard. Why the fuck did we save that country in two world wars? Should have let the damn Germans keep the place. I didn't sleep a wink all night as I just sat in the chair and stared at the TV.

I half-expected Traci to slink into the house in the middle of the night, but when that didn't happen I thought just maybe Charles had gotten into a car wreck with Traci in the car. I called the local sheriff's office at about 8 a.m., told them who I was, and asked if they had any wrecks during the night. I was told they didn't.

I called Traci's phone another four times; got nothing another four times.

As noon approached, I heard a car pull up in the driveway, and a person got out judging by only one door slamming. About 45 seconds later, Traci put her key in the lock, opened the door, and walked in. Another few seconds later, she spotted me in the family room, and quietly sat down on the sofa on the other side of the room.

If I had any doubts about what they were doing, those were quickly put to rest by her appearance. At least she had the decency to have showered before coming home. Her long blonde hair, hanging free yesterday, was drawn back into a pony tail, which appeared damp, and she was completely devoid of any makeup. She was wearing the yellow sun dress she was wearing yesterday, and the skin of her chest, shoulders and arms was glowing pink. She had the satisfied look of a woman well-fucked, and I have to admit she looked gorgeous. She also didn't look the least bit remorseful or guilty, and if anything, seemed to have a condescending smirk on her face.

"Nice of you to show up. Have a good time last night ... and this morning?" I sneered.

"Actually, I did," she replied smugly.

That wasn't exactly the answer I was expecting to hear.

"Look, Greg," she continued calmly. "Have you ever in your life just had the most amazing physical and emotional connection with someone from the minute you saw them? I mean completely amazing, almost electric ... and wonderful ... and amazing?"

"Yes, I have," I answered immediately. "I married that woman."

That was not exactly the answer she was expecting to hear, because her completely placid demeanor was finally shattered. Her almost glassy-eyed calm broken, her eyes finally showed some recognition of the depth of my despair.

"I-I-I met mine yesterday. I can't explain it. I have to have him. I love him."

"Just like that?! Are you fucking nuts!" I screamed. "You throw away 25 years of marriage because of a feeling? Did I mean absolutely nothing to you?"

I'm not sure why she wasn't expecting my explosion. She started to sob uncontrollably at my outburst. I didn't care.

"I do love you, Greg," she finally choked out. "What we've had together has been great, but this is just the most amazing connection I've ever had with anyone in my entire life. I love you, but I'm in love with him. It's amazing!"

"Amazing. I get it. Give me a little time to get used to it and I'll throw you a fucking party," I spat at her.

"So do you want to file or should I?" I continued. "It will be an even split regardless, and we'll sell the house and split that money, too."

"I don't think we need to rush into anything like divorce just yet," she said, more than a hint of exasperation in her voice. "Let's just see how this plays out a little bit. We can make the big decisions down the road."

It was my turn to be exasperated.

"What?" I whined. "That's not how this works. You don't get to keep me as a back-up plan. If you're fucking him, you can have him as soon as possible. As far as I'm concerned, we were done when you fucked him the first time yesterday. Fucking him multiple times since then just adds to my resolve."

"But but but ..." she sputtered.

"Fine, then. I'll file, and I'll move out by the end of the week."

True to my word, I had my stuff out of the house by the end of the week. I took a couple of personal days off from work and got it done. While I was loading up my pick-up one evening, Scott and Wendy Harris came down the block and apologized to me for inviting Charles to their party. I stopped them politely, pointing out to them that they had no way of knowing that Traci was going to go off the deep end with this guy.

"Still, we can't help but feel responsible," Wendy said as she and Scott looked at their shoes.

My lawyer had divorce papers drawn up and Traci was served inside of a month. Apparently she figured I was going to take her advice and drag my feet, because my lawyer told me the process server said she had a fit when he handed her the papers. Which explains why two days later she showed up at my new apartment and barged right in when I answered the door to her ringing the bell.

"How could you do this if you love me as much as you say you do?" she railed as she walked into my apartment.

I was shocked at first but quickly recovered as anger took over.

"Are you seriously stupid?" I yelled back at her. "You're fucking another man! What did you expect me to do. I may love you, but I'm not your willing cuckold."

"And if this doesn't work out, what am I supposed to do then? Just give me a little time. If this doesn't work out, I will come back to you and be the best wife ever. We can grow old together."

"You're delusional," I shot back at her. "I'm not giving you permission to fuck your dream guy until you figure out if it works for you. Besides, if he's your dream guy, why wouldn't it work out?"