I slam the car door shut and impatiently wait for the taxi driver to open the trunk. I know I’ve been bad company on the drive. Feels terrible. Lost in recollections, re-running the past few hours over and over in my head—a supposedly fleeting memory now etched into my brain.
I grab my suitcase, slide my hand in my pocket and, lost in regretful rumination of the previous night, produce a handful of crumpled bills I transfer to his eagerly waiting hand. His so-far consequentially grumpy face lights up as he notices I'm not making any attempts at getting my change back in the socially agreeable time. He scrams as quickly as possible, muttering something unintelligible under his breath before burning some serious rubber and leaving me standing in a cloud of dust and matching tire tracks behind him. In just this moment, it dawns on me that my accidental tip amounts to about five times the cost of the ride.
I'm far too absorbed by my mental torment, however, to let this disturb my preoccupation too much, for there is a much greater lapse awaiting to be mended—but how?
I sigh as I gaze upon the entrance of my home—our home. These few steps up the driveway never seemed so steep, long and heavy. I count them backwards, holding my breath between each of them as if that remedied the dread of facing you, coping with lying to you, with what an indescribably despicable dick I am. To what end? You know too well, distress often makes me cling to such irrational behavior patterns. You’ll see right through me as you always do.
I ascend the doorstep, breathing heavily as if the short walk there from the taxi truly was the colossal effort my anguished mind has made it feel like. Tentatively, I lower the handle—it won't budge. A sigh of momentary relief; you're not home. This buys me more time to ease my mind, come at peace with myself, with what I've done to you, come up with a plan of how to keep my cool when facing you, cover my shame, hiding it from you. More lies? Apparently, that’s all I’m good at.
Shakily, I try to insert the key. I turn it.
Once.
Her face distorted by the throes of her orgasm flashes before my eyes.
I try to wince it away.
Twice.
The rhythmic bouncing of her breasts as she rode me to sweet oblivion—literal oblivion of the fact that I'm married to you and have long ago given up on monotonously reciting the mantra of my marital vows—in my mind anyway.
I squint my eyes and grit my teeth.
Three times.
The stream of my cum oozing from her used hole I lapped with my tongue to glaze her swollen petals and her prominently erect pearl only to feed it to her in a creamy, tangy kiss of our combined orgasmic secretions.
I try the handle again—click!—and the door achingly creaks open. Worse than my hips, I jest, smiling inwardly, vainly endeavoring to calm my concerns with my therapeutic self-effacing humor. My erection stemming from the lewd reminiscence betrays my compunction-smitten heart that nearly stops as my eyes fall upon your warm, loving smile lighting up your pretty face.
Startled, I backpedal, mouth half-agape, unable to even move my lips.
Normally, I would be overjoyed to find you home waiting for me but this time, all I manage is a forced, half-harried flash of my teeth as my mind painfully wanders back to the promise I made—only to break it so easily.
***
"I'm jealous," you began your parting words, "because you get to meet her on your symposium's last night."
I knew you were not jealous of the fact that I was going to meet another woman but that it was her and you couldn't come with me on my business trip. She and I had met online on a video conference and, after having settled our initial dispute, quickly found we shared many common interests and exchanged numbers. After just over a year of intense virtual back-and-forths, I was assigned a one-week business stay in her city and was overjoyed to finally meet her in person.
"You know I can call it off, change the booking and come home a day early instead," I replied. "I share all our texts with you and you know she'd understand if you say you don't want us to meet without you being here too."
Your clement smile seemed heartbreakingly forced as if you were desperately trying to convince yourself you were fine with it. "No, it's OK. You were so excited about seeing her when you got assigned the gig. Who would I be to tell you who you're allowed to see?"
I saw in your eyes that you were wishing you could come with me to finally meet her too.
"O-O… K," I hesitated. "If you say so. Just..."
I nervously nibbled my bottom lip and scratched my upper arm.
"If anything happens, uh, if anything might happen... I will remem—" I swallowed mid-word, "—ber our agreement. I'll... uh... call you and... er... ask you for permission."
Although you clearly were still struggling, I could tell you were relieved at hearing me reminding you of our arrangement none of us had so far ever made use of. Your relief somewhat helped clearing my qualms too. I knew it was going to be hard to resist her but also I knew you'd be the reasonable one talking some sense into me and if that didn't help, I'd still have her to kick my butt firmly enough to remember my place—in doubt, she always did. She had an innate talent for that.
***
Snapping back to reality as my heart is pounding up my throat from what should have passed as a fond memory but has, in a matter of hours, turned into a haunting nightmare I struggle to conceal from you. The joyous expression on your face over me coming home only pushes the knife further into the self-inflicted wound.
The singular step you take towards my unconsciously opening arms, letting your bun bounce playfully in its well-practiced slow-motion display once more paints your perfect beauty against my retina—a picture that would calm my worries any other day. Yet, this time, every inch you take to close the gap between us methodically chips away my determination I have so far failed to muster.
Dumbstruck by the stupefaction of your soft lips crashing on mine, my thoughts linger on the heated discussion she and I had over dinner...
***
...and how, in a moment of looming silence, I tried to play with my wedding ring for reassurance, yet only feeling its imprinted shadow on my finger. Knowing where I had forgotten it—subconsciously left it there so thoughts of you wouldn't interfere with my night with her—I made up for the pang of regret stinging in my stomach with my best overconfident smile. All the while, our legs were restless under the table, anticipating the unrolling of the inevitable events.