The Other Woman.

A light click signaled the unlocking of a door, and I listened closely for the curses that would soon follow as you attempt to navigate our apartment without turning the lights on. You think the light will wake me. Of course, you couldn’t know that I never go to sleep when you aren’t home. I can’t anymore, knowing what you’re up to out there.

”Aw, fuck! Ow!” Angry, hushed whispers shatter the newly made silence, and I smirk, imagining the way you’ll trip over the conveniently extended footrest of your favorite chair. The one we picked out together when we got this apartment, and you said you wanted “an awesome poofy chair” that you could sit in while you watch a football match, then yell at me to get you a beer, woman! I laughed then, because I know you hate football, and you laughed along, knowing that I’m much too indignant to ever accept “get me a beer, woman” lying down. I miss that.

Down the hallway, a light comes on, casting a weak illumination from under the bathroom door that I can see from our bed. That I’ve seen from our bed too many times in the past two months. The rushing sounds of water are entirely too loud in our quiet apartment. You’re probably washing the smell of her off of you; washing off the lipstick that stains the skin of your neck and face. Don’t you realize I wash your clothes, and I see the lipstick marks on your shirt collar, or the button fly of your fucking boxers? I growl softly. Slut.

The sound of running water ceases, and the light is abruptly shut off. Your tread softly down the shining wood that covers the floor of our hallway, and the bed sinks down with your weight as you get in. My eyes screw shut, and I fake a sleepy awakening as he lies down beside me. “Honey? What time is it?” I ask, knowing exactly what time it is. One in the goddamn morning. “Where have you been?” Admit it, you prick. Just fucking admit it, and you can leave.

You nuzzle into my neck, curling your body around mine. Your hand snakes itself around my waist, and I fight shrinking away from you. I turn to you and curl my face into your neck, discretely wanting to smell her on you, to reaffirm my suspicions yet again. But nothing is there. Only the distinct smell of your skin, of warmth, and the man I tell myself I don’t love anymore. You groan at my touch, and kiss my lips. “It’s late, Sugar, I know. I was with the boys,” you whisper. “I’m sorry,” you say, and give me the puppy dog eyes you know I can’t resist.

I’ll wait until tomorrow to confront you. I need to be sure. “I love you,” you say into my neck, and we curl up together under the down filled comforter. I can wait.

***

The sun is shining too brightly today, and the skies are too clear. I busy myself while you’re at work, waiting anxiously for four thirty to roll around. Dust, vacuum, laundry. I want the house to be beautiful when you get home. You always remember to thank me, but not lately. You’ve been distracted. I sneer in disgust. The clock ticks onward, and I hustle and bustle in the kitchen, making the pork roast you love so much, and all of your favorite sides. I’ll make dessert after dinner. If you’re here to enjoy it with me.

Four thirty comes too slowly, but finally I hear the click of the door’s mechanisms moving, rearranging, and doing so much at the simple turn of a knob. You enter, and call out “Mmm, it smells great in here, Sugar.”

It takes all I have not to stiffen as you come up behind me and rest your chin on my shoulder like a little boy, looking around to see what there is to eat. You turn your head and kiss the side of my neck gently, and I smile despite myself. You know all my sweet spots. “How was your day?” I ask him, and turn to face my boyfriend.

“Long. Work was killer today. The boss always wants more than I seem to be able to give.” Funny. I thought you were a well that could never be tapped, considering you can spend the day with me, and the nights with her.

I plaster on a smile and stand on tiptoes to put my arms around his neck. I kiss his collarbone, because I know how much you love it. You wrap your arms around my waist, and let out a groan. “I’m glad to be home.”

I smile at him and turn to the stove, saying, “Dinner will be ready in a few minutes. Do you want to go change?” He makes a sound of agreement and pads down the hall to our room. I bow my head and sniff, fighting back tears. Glad, really? Then why do you leave me so often?

When you come back down the hall a few minutes later, I’m artfully arranging the food on your plate, using the good china that your mother gave us. If we fight, and we throw things, I’m throwing something important, like this fucking plate, and after all, presentation is everything.

We sit down, and it’s one of the most pleasant dinners we’ve had together in a few weeks. We even sit by each other at the dinner table, at your suggestion. Eating is a short affair, and after you’ve finished, you sigh and smile at me, thanking me for the delicious meal. We put the dishes in the sink, and you kiss me on the cheek.

”Do you want to go watch a movie on the couch?” You ask.

“No, I’m actually going to make us some dessert.” I smile widely at him. He doesn’t know that I’m going to bring it up over those brownies you love so much. Might as well give your favorite dessert some negative connotations while I’m at it.

“Brownies?” you ask excitedly, and your grin reminds me of the old days. I nod and you scamper off to the couch, leaving me alone to cook.

I scrape ingredients together, mixing, beating, folding. Who ever said that cooking was a passive experience? An idea comes to me, and I call from the kitchen “Do you want peanut butter chips in them, querido?” No affirmative or negative call greets my question, so I step out into the living room to see you putting on your shoes. You’ve changed into pants and a nice dress shirt. “Where are you going?” I ask, my voice too small for the anger I’m feeling.

“Out.” You answer shortly. “I’ll be back in a while.” You open the door with an angry look on your face. What happened? All of my plans are out the door with you as I hear a resounding slam in our apartment. Numbly, I make my way back to the kitchen, and pour too many peanut butter chips into the mix. I’m not even focusing as I pour the batter into a pan and place it in the already heated oven. The timer is set, and I go sit on the couch in silence.

***

I sit in the growing darkness of the living room for an hour, maybe two. Then I hear your familiar footsteps in the hall, and laugh as I look at the bowl beside the door. You forgot your keys, you idiot. There is no noise as you stand at the door, and I can practically see you searching through your pockets, and the exasperated look on your face. You knock loudly on the door. “Babe?” You call. “I forgot my keys! Can you let me in, please?”

Fat chance. A few seconds pass, and you call again. “Babe? BABY? Sugar, let me in, please, I forgot my keys?” Fucking asshole. I walk to the door, and open it a fraction.

“What do you want?”

You look taken aback at my angry tone. “I forgot my keys. Can I come in now?”

I let you in, and glare. It’s now or never, my conscience coaches. Do it! I take a deep breath. “Where the fuck have you been these last couple weeks? You’re never home earlier than midnight, and you stumble in like a fucking burglar. I have one question. Who are you fucking?” My voice gets louder as I speak, and by the last word, I’m yelling and my face is scrunched to stop the tears.

“What?” You’re making the face that you always put on when you can’t comprehend something. A light goes on, and you laugh without humor. “You think I’m cheating on you?”

“No shit,” I say, and cross my arms.

“You’re an idiot,” he says, and my jaw drops. His face is hard, and I’ve never seen him look this angry before.

My mouth impersonates the fish in the corner tank. “What?” I finally stutter out, confused by his rigid statement.

“What’s today?” He asks, and I’m startled by his change of subject.

”June 23. Why?”

“Today is a year, Sugar. It’s our anniversary. I was out finding your flowers. They’re not in season, so it took a while.” He reaches into the bag at his feet I didn’t notice it before and pulls out a beautifully arranged bouquet of orchids. My favorite flower. “I haven’t been cheating on you. I’ve been exactly where I told you: With the boys.”

I am an idiot. How could I ever doubt him? As the first tear drops, I throw myself into his arms, and bury my face in the crook of his neck. I sniffle out, “I’m sorry.” He pets my back gently, and kisses the top of my head.

“It’s okay.”

My heart glows as I hear him say, “I love you.” He stands in the living room with a look on his face that I can’t place as I walk into the kitchen to put the flowers in water. I don’t want them to die. My heart pangs as I think about how wrong I was about him.

Sadly, what I don’t see is the way he walks to the bathroom while I’m gone and changes his clothes again, throwing them directly into the laundry basket, mentally reminding himself to do his own laundry. I need to be more careful, he thinks to himself. The aerosol can is cold in his hand as he applies cologne to rid himself of the other woman’s smell.