I hadn't seen my ex-wife for nearly two years. Not since we sat together on a low concrete wall outside the courthouse after the divorce proceedings. Even then I hoped things could be turned around, a miracle performed, that her heart could be turned back towards me. Now I see how foolish I must have seemed to her. I see how my timid accommodations and surrenders must have looked like yet more evidence of my "lack of backbone," as she was fond of telling me. Somehow she ended up with the house while the few thousand dollars compensation I received vanished in lawyer's fees. ("Really", she said, "you must understand the house isn't worth as much you think it is. It's best this way."). After the divorce I tried to keep in contact with her but eventually the unanswered emails piled high enough even I could see that she wanted me out of her life. She remarried.
And yet on an ordinary Thursday evening, in a local bar, she sat perched on a high stool, her elbows resting on the tall round table, peering intently into the depths of her phone. Beside her was a half-empty glass of red wine.
As the fights escalated at the end of our marriage she denied having affairs, ridiculing my accusations, demanding evidence, mocking my "paranoia." The truth was that I had no evidence, only my suspicions, her small lies and omissions, and my gut feeling. Her only stumble was when she denied being here in this bar with someone, and yet her credit card clearly showed she had paid a bill here -- a bill too large for a single person. The fight became about me "going through her things" and she refused to talk about it again, saying I had violated her trust.
I watched her prod her phone angrily and then rapidly swallow her remaining wine. She dropped a ten dollar note on the table and then swiftly exited the bar. I was in her field of vision as she left but she didn't see me. I was nothing to her. The thought she might have been stood up was a small compensation.
Back in my small rented apartment that night I lay sleepless, listening to the ancient heating pipes clang. My insomniac thoughts returned to the weathered paths of the cuckolded husband. I dusted off suspicions and reexamined evidence. I felt again the familiar metal-tipped spike of jealous pain. My thoughts ran on in familiar hurtful circles until I was struck by something entirely new. I sat up in bed, suddenly alert. This time I was not the cuckold, her new husband was. I had been witness to a failed assignation. She was a cheat and now I had evidence. Not proof, just evidence, of a sort.
My friend George was blessed with looks but spared the burden of too much intelligence. He was married and a well-known philanderer. His wife was a wispy creature whose presence in the world seemed entirely accidental. He had, on occasion, let me know he found my ex-wife attractive. In fact, he had been extremely crude in his description of her on one drunken occasion. I both resented this and yet found it arousing.
I wrote to him and explained my plan to which he cheerfully acquiesced. The plan was to get her to meet George for a drink. I wrote the first email to my ex-wife for George, not trusting his spelling or his ability to tempt her away from her marriage. She knew George slightly and also knew his reputation. To accept an invitation from George would not be innocent.
George sent me her replies and I continued to write on his behalf. She was hesitant at first but I managed unlock her natural flirtatiousness. I expressed, on George's behalf, a concern that perhaps her husband would object to their meeting. She quickly responded that George need not worry about "him." Eventually she agreed to a meeting when "he" was away on business. I had once been the "he" and the "him".
I tutored George before the assignation -- tread softly at first, let her talk, complement her, ask her about her work. Most important of all, have her drink vodka and not wine. She would be much easier to handle after three or four vodkas. George took his task seriously, even taking notes on his phone of useful conversation topics -- her cat, her college experience, her love of clothes shopping, and so on. The next step was more difficult -- getting her to invite him back to her house (my house). I told him not to be too blunt but to offer to make sure she gets home safely.
Date night arrived and I sat in my car across from the bar with a clear view of the tables inside. George arrived first and my ex-wife was her usual ten minutes late. She walked unknowingly passed my car in her green leather jacket, a yellow scarf I recognized, and a pair of black ankle length boots. When she shucked off her jacket in the bar I registered her tight skirt and black stockings. As instructed, George took a table close to the window and I snapped the first of several photos.
Watching her and George was like seeing a silent movie, their gestures exaggerated, and my imagination heightened. This is how she must have looked when I was out of town, when she met up with her lovers, when she had safely packed me off on some family errand so that she could cheat and lie to me. By the second vodka I noticed how she was playing with a strand of hair as she talked. I had forgotten this seductive tick of hers and my heart lurched in recognition. When the third vodka arrived I had enough photos and I was impatient for the next part of the plan. I needed George to make his move.
I was unable to hear the negotiations in the car park but eventually my ex-wife stepped into George's Audi and I followed them across town to my ex-house. I parked across the street and waited for the lights to go on in the house before I slipped across the lawn, skirted the garage, and stood in at the back door. My key turned the lock and I found myself back in my house.
I could hear the murmur of voices. They were in the lounge. I took off my shoes, opened and swiftly made my way to the darkened TV room. Concealed in the darkness I listened to their conversation. George had no idea I was here.
When we split up the furniture during the divorce negotiations she had suggested we go through the house and attached red and blue stickers so that the movers would know what stuff to take and what to leave. Red leaves and blue stays. I sat on the couch that was no longer mine and stared at the no-longer-mine blank TV. I could hear she was flirting now. I recognized the purring in her voice and the slightly false tone to her laughter. Then the talk stopped and there was a silence and a shuffling sound. I crept softly across the blue-dotted Persian carpet we had bought together in Istanbul until I could peer from the shadows into the lounge. There, sprawled on the blue-dotted couch was George, his back to me, kissing my ex-wife, her eyes closed, her hand gently on the back on his head pulling him closer. George's hand was on her stockinged knee, her other hand was fiddling with his belt. I snapped another photo with my phone.
The next photo showed George stretched back on the couch, his pants and underwear bunched around his ankles. Kneeling on the rug in front of him was my ex-wife, her mouth full of cock. I watched her jaw move as she dropped her head and widened her mouth to take as much in as she could. He groaned and she stopped. She smiled up at him and invited him to her bedroom.
I calculated a suitable following distance and climbed the stairs. I passed the blue-dotted artwork on the hallway wall and took up my place in the shadows with a view of the blue-dotted bedroom. By the seductive light of a bedside lamp (we bought it together in Montreal) I watched my ex-wife perform a clumsy striptease. She wriggled out of her tight skirt revealing thigh-high stockings and shiny pair of black-lace panties. She needed his help with her shirt buttons but soon enough her bra lay among the clothing debris. George hopped around taking off his socks.
I listened to her heavy moans and George's grunts as he fucked my ex-wife, on her back, her legs spread wide open. In the low light I could see only flickering images of their pink entangled skin. So this is how it looked and sounded when I lay alone in a hotel room and she cheated -- her feral grunts of illicit pleasure, her selfish, cunt-centered, cock-needing, whorishness. I heard her sudden intake of breath, the squeak from the back of her throat, that signaled her approaching orgasm.
After George came over her belly and breasts they both fell into a slumber. I waited. An hour later George stumbled around in the dark retrieving his clothes and quickly, silently, left the house. The bedroom smelled of sex. I open the blind a little to let in a stream of pale moonlight. I picked up her panties and smelled my ex-wife's anticipatory discharge. I lifted the duvet and observed her naked back, the long valley of her spine, and the perfectly round orbs of her ass. I smiled at the low sound of her vodka-induced snore. Once I was naked I closed the blind, throwing the room into darkness, slipped under the duvet, and nestled myself against her back. I could smell her now, her hair, her skin, the scent of her sex. A feeling of nostalgia that could have been mistaken for love almost overwhelmed me. She stirred a little, pushing back against me. My erection pressed against her back. I held her breast, still sticky from George's semen. She moaned in her sleep, pressing harder against me. I maneuvered my cock to the entrance of her still slippery pussy and slowly pushed my way in. She was beginning to stir. "Again?" she whispered. I grunted. "Okay," she said. In the darkness I pulled her on to her knees and positioned myself behind her. My ex-wife's ass was spread wide, her cunt open and ready. I fucked her viciously, grabbing a fistful of her hair to keep her facing the pillows. I orgasmed hard, filling her cheating pussy with a bubbling froth of angry cum.
As I sped down the hallway making my escape I heard her sleepy, hangover voice calling after me. "George, you said you'd use a condom. George?" I ran naked across the lawn, my clothes and shoes bundled under my arm and drove away.
My ex-wife must have wondered how her husband found out about her cheating but the proof of the photos saved her husband the anguish of uncertainty and the torture of her lies. I like to think though that the red sticker which mysteriously appeared on her discarded panties the morning after her night of adulterous fucking gave her a small clue to origin of her calamity. I hope so.