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.

The tender nylon of her stocking-clad toes stubbing my ankle while she beamed at me left my breath stuck in my throat. I swallowed emptily, still chewing on my Chateaubriand that suddenly seemed overly tough under my weakening resolve. In vain, I tried to wash down the lump in my gullet with a generous sip of the suddenly vinegary Bordeaux, causing the chunk to just slowly descend my esophagus at about the same lazy pace her foot rose up my leg.

Once on my chair, her toes sought out my raging hardness, softly mapping the contrast between my soft balls and by then chrome-plated shaft just as the gobbet in my chest seemed to find home, yet only causing a nauseous feeling in my guts.

The startlement over the distressingly loud splash of the wine being filled up by the overly attentive, yet oblivious waiter brought me out of my reverie. One brief glimpse into her face was enough to realize she knew exactly what she was doing under the safe cover of the chastely white tablecloth.

***

“So... How was meeting her?” I get yanked out of my daydreams by your voice loaded with mere curiosity—probably just my mind letting me think it is, as a self-preservation mechanism.

I easily smile, the rational part of me fascinated by how effortlessly I cover my guilt-ridden heart to hide the hurtful truth from you, how easy it is to just delude you and how comfortably I prefer to sink further into the depths of the discomfort that has been consuming me the past hours over spilling the beans and being honest with you.

Or is it because you know just how insane the uncertainty about how much you know makes me? Of course, you know, I’m too fucking easy to read, aren’t I?

“Well,” I chuckle with yet another signature awkward simper, barely able to dub my self-reproach. While the evening with her is all too blurry save for our fling in my room—oh, how I wished it was the other way—all my cerebral resources are geared towards crafting a story. A kingdom for a flimsy fib!

***

Her husky breath against my neck made the hair on my nape stand while I patiently waited for you to pick up your phone. Her soft lips sucking on my earlobe as I dreadfully anticipated your voicemail with each passing toot. Worse than your begging not to fall victim to my instincts would have been your silence—the indecision.

Just as her teeth gently nibbled on my skin, making me gasp, you picked up with your habitual cheer I fell in love with all those years ago. “Honey, how nice of you to call me just before bedtime. How’s the evening?”

Mind too clouded by her scent—too high on her pheromones to comprehend I was already lost, I replied, on autopilot, “It’s great, yeah. I... uh...” suppressed a gasp, “food was amazing, great hotel... uh... just wondering if...” mouthing a silent ‘fuck’.

“I was a bit afraid you’d ask, Hun,” you replied, hesitation in your voice, not letting me finish. “And...” I heard your sigh, heavy with plea. “Please don’t do it. I’m not ready for this just yet.”

“Sure,” I replied, as sharp nails tore open the skin on my nape, sending electric jolts down my spine, causing my body to writhe in scrumptious torture, making me awfully aware of the tireless tightness in my trousers, washing away all my agony in just a glimpse of instant arousal, the soft, ardent breeze coming from between her luscious lips just inches from my ear having long ago catalyzed my decision. “I’ll keep my fingers to myself, then,” deliberately lying to you, too foolish to realize my heart—nay, my cock—already betrayed me without even batting its singular eye. “Good night, Treasure. See you tomorrow. I love you.”

I hung up.

I knew she had heard your words too but challenged me to repeat them. My mind recognized I should say no, I have to say no, I must—silence as her soft lips pressed against mine. ‘Nooo…’ trailing off into the depth of her eyes as she broke the kiss and stung me with those deep, dark blue orbs of hers, framed by the auburn hair that cascaded down her face and over her shoulders.

I was lost...

***

...just as much as I am right now, seeking my reflection in your eyes, thus forcing myself to look at you. If I didn't, you would notice my change of demeanor—if you haven't long ago, that is. Yet I just know you’ll notice it just as much in my piercing glare that keeps jumping between your pupils, unable to decide onto which to drop anchor.

My thoughts dawdle on this marine metaphor I already uttered...

***

...as she and I lay there, panting in the afterglow, her head resting on my chest, finger laggardly drawing circles on my chest, the cruelty of reality nonchalantly discarded as the minor nuisance it represented. We exchanged irrelevant sweet nothings that sprang from the spur of the moment—meaningless, little more than throwaway phrases then...

***

...but so gut-wrenchingly heavy now, her exact hardly even aspirated words prominently burnt into my head as an unsolicitedly latched-on memento. If only I had known that my weakness would catch up with me, taint my conscience, fill my belly with nauseatingly bitter remorse rather than forbidden thrill...

The quest for consolation naturally drives me into the familiar comfort of your arms, relieving me from the obligation to return your gaze. I find myself on the verge of losing my mind over how simple it was to deceive you and get away with it, close to bursting with laughter and thus rendering all the effort for naught.

As you tighten your embrace around my neck just the moment I unclench my aching jaw and pull me in for another homecoming kiss as you always do, my heart rate decelerates, the storm in my belly abates, my mind declares early victory... although deep within, I am fully aware that the guilt will consume me over the years.

I already try to wager what will happen first: the stigma of my adulterous frailty eating me up or one of us dying. Unnoticed to me, your lips travel from mine to my ear.

“Was she worth it?” I hear your barely audible breath.

How silly of me to believe I would not simply give myself away.