Tribute Tales: I Screamed… by SirThopas
http://www.web.archive.org/web/20170225165017/www.literotica.com/s/tribute-tales-i-screamed
But what does it all mean?

I remember letting out a great, ragged sigh and pressing my palm to the middle of my chest.

My heart was setting a runner's pace. No matter how much air I expelled from my lungs, there still seemed more left asking for release. It was as if my very soul were abandoning me, leaving nothing but a collection of tissues that, for no reason other than that they couldn't see a reason not to, continued to perform their respective duties. That breath went on forever.

It's the most vivid memory I have of the moment that I discovered that my wife was cheating on me. It's also the only tactile one.

It was 11:14 on a Tuesday morning… a time which should, by all accounts, be about as insignificant as they come. The sky was an expressionless gray, the few inches of snow that hadn't melted yet turning hard and shiny by the sudden return of winter. Believe it or not, I had been sent home early because of pink eye. It was going around the school system, they told me, and a few days prior one of the women in my department had picked it up from her daughter. Apparently, I must have hit the vending machine or the coffee pot after her and gotten in on the deal, because I awoke with some mild itchiness and hadn't been at work more than two hours before it became obvious that something was wrong. By 10:30 it was plain to anybody who looked at me: conjunctivitis.

I was going to hit the Express Care, but decided to run home and grab a book first. Any trip to the Express was sure to last an hour or two… the people who worked there went about their work in angry defiance of the name… and I didn't want to be stuck spending that time watching Fox News or whatever they had on. And if it struck me as a little bit odd that my wife's car was in the garage when she ought to have been at work, it was downright alarming to hear the sounds of Schubert's Piano Trio No. 1 playing when I opened the door into the house. We have a multiroom audio system, and my wife has a liking for playing classical music radio when we make love. Neither of us is a classical music fan. I just think she likes to have music playing to mask the sounds a bit, and the classical music both feels more romantic and is easier to tune out than pop radio.

The thing is, though, that we never, ever put that radio station on unless we're making love.

I almost called out her name, but decided against it. Looking down, I saw her work slippers sitting next to a pair of dressy men's shoes. Hers were small and light blue. His were large and well-cared for. My entire perception of my wife and of my marriage began to twist and crumple. At this point, as I began making my way quickly but quietly into the house, I began to unknowingly hold my breath. I only realized what I was doing when I reached the bedroom and looked in on the two of them. I immediately released that previously mentioned sigh and pushed my palm to my chest. Few moments in our lifetimes can be worse than that single moment when one discovers betrayal by a loved one. It feels like a small part of our own death has been visited upon us, too early. In fact, lot of my life ended at that moment. The sixteen years that I'd loved her, which had previously been the best of my life, died first. Seen in the same light which illuminated the way her hands clung to his back, they looked like nothing more than sixteen long lies that she'd told me in incremental, mocking detail. The future that we would share together went next. The experiences we would share and the people we would become were murdered, their corpses burnt by the frictive heat of his pumping into her. In an instant, I was redefined. Whatever I would be, from here on out, she would get no part of it.

They swung around. Once astride him, she began rhythmically lifting and lowering herself onto the place where they connected. It vanished, over and over, coming out glistening wet. I couldn't remember a time when she was ever that wet. Then she dropped down one last time, and his hands reached up to grip her hips firmly. He held her against his pelvis and smiled up at her. In response, she leaned back and rested her hands on his thighs. I could see her bite her lip seductively as she began rocking her hips against him. His smile changed from affectionate to cocky, and he took his hands off her hips and put them behind his head. His eyes took in her figure as she danced. I'm not sure anything could be more destructive to a man than to see the inherent eroticism of his wife riding another, silhouetted in the sunlight, her back arched and breasts pushed out, a stray strand of hair hanging down over her sweat-sheened face.

I recognized him, vaguely. I knew he was someone from her work, higher on the totem pole than her but not someone who worked directly with her. I had met him at a company party once, just long enough to talk football. He didn't leave any distinct impression at the time… he sure was making up for that now.

I considered ruining the party, crashing in and violently ruining the fun, but was stopped short when she let out a low moan and softly told him, "I've really missed you."

"I've missed you, too," he responded. "I wish we could see each other more often. It's been almost a week."

"I wish we could too, baby," she practically purred. "God, you feel incredible."

And just like that, I was stopped from intervening. I could honestly find no energy to do so. What would be the point? This wasn't the first time. She had betrayed me and come back for more. Who knows how many times this had happened, here in my bed. Suddenly, I was exhausted, feeling sorry for myself, and I was aware that somewhere deep down in my belly I was angry. Incredibly angry. I found that it simmered deep down inside, like a fire that was only beginning to be stoked into combustive brilliance.

Like the rushing, lifting hot air that warns the miners of an incoming blast.

But I needed time to think, and to decide my best course. So I didn't barge in. I didn't reveal myself. I didn't even take pictures. I did the only thing any sane man could do in my situation.

I went to the Quick Care.

Turned out I didn't need any reading material. I spent the entire ninety minutes of my visit that didn't involve getting looked at and filling my prescription thinking about my life. I couldn't find anything in my marriage that might reasonably be construed as structural weakness. I know that one person's perfect is another's disappointment, but Sherrie and I had always been very communicative about our feelings. If she was ever dissatisfied with a decision I'd made or something I'd done, she would let me know… and she would do it in a way that felt like open honesty rather than attack. I would always do the same for her, and if she got maybe a little bit more emotional about my directness than I did with hers… well, she's a woman. What can you do? She never snapped at me for it, or held it against me, and after she'd had a little time to process she would inevitably come back to discuss solutions. We looked out for one another.

So how did it come to this?

I don't care what you read online. People who are caring and affectionate don't just wake up one day and risk destroying the person they love. Not unless they're a sociopath. It has to build to the point where they're willing to do so… they have to be brought to the point of questioning the relationship itself. So how did Sherrie get there? What was her logic? Or, if not logic, what was her emotional base for her actions? What fork in the road had she reached, that I hadn't even noticed? Why had she decided to take that turn, and why hadn't she been honest enough to tell me first?

How long had I been walking the path alone, and not even knowing it?

None of these questions could be answered in the antiseptic calm of an express care clinic, so I turned my thoughts on consequences instead. I knew that my marriage was over. This wasn't something that I was going to be able to just shrug off, or eventually get past. I didn't know this at the time, but I've since learned that the majority of people who are cheated on will attempt reconciliation with the person who let them down. Good for them… that's probably the Christian way. But it's just not who I am.

I also wondered if maybe divorce would seem perfectly acceptable to Sherrie. Clearly her feelings for me weren't what I thought they were. She may not love me any more… hell, maybe she'd checked out a long time ago. If that were true, she would happily sign the papers and go on with her life as she had been. Where would that leave me? Undefined and alone, without a thing to show for it. Whatever rage festered inside me only grew as I imagined that she might tear me apart and then waltz off into her happily-ever-after. Surely my feelings were worth something, in all of this? How was I supposed to recover myself, if the universe deemed me unworthy of justice?

Survival was the name of the game. So the question was, what consequences did I need for my wife to experience in order for me to be able to heal? What punishments could I reasonably hope for her to face as a result of her betrayal?

Goddamn it, it was simpler than that. I was in a doctor's office and feeling terrible, wasn't I? So the question was as simple as the problem:

What would make me feel better?

I ran through a variety of scenarios, including violent ones, but I ultimately constructed the following list:

I wanted Sherrie to have to take a greater active role in her deception. I knew my wife, in spite of my great miscalculation regarding her fidelity. I knew that, if she was cheating on me, then she was unquestionably using some carefully construed logic as to why it was okay, or why it wouldn't cause harm. Her perception of herself as a moral person was important to her… I should probably thank her Catholic parents for that one… and she would work hard to maintain the idea that there were reasons enough to justify her actions. The more immoral her actions became… the more she lied and snuck around, allowing her affair to become sordid and tainted… the harder that would become for her. And that would drive her crazy.

I wanted her to see the emotional toll her actions placed on me. I knew that a quick confrontation and divorce was probably in her favor, because it would minimize her exposure to my suffering. By and large, having destroyed somebody else's life isn't nearly as difficult to live with as having to SEE that you've done it. She could easily gloss over my pain, and that too would help her justify her actions. I wanted her to see a man falling apart, and for her to have to come to the realization that it was her fault. Showing her pain would be the easiest part of the plan. It was all I felt.

I wanted whatever relationship that existed between herself and this man soured. I wanted it trashed, with no hope of reconciliation. No matter what else happened, I didn't want her able to simply leave me behind and ride off into the sunset.

I wanted her parents to know. I cared about them. I liked them. They liked me. I didn't doubt that, in the event of a divorce, she would work hard to ensure that her affair was kept secret from them. No way was I going to be the bad guy in their eyes… not if I could help it.

My plan was simple: first, I needed to arrange for her parents to discover her affair. It had to be, or appear to be, of their own accord. I didn't think this would affect any plans I set up for afterwards, because they were a tight knit family. They would be horrified. They would be furious with her. But they also were not the sort to air other people's dirty laundry… and certainly not their own daughter's. And that worked in my favor, too. Their awareness of her terrible failing, of what she had done to me, would be all the more destructive to their relationship with her because their strict beliefs would keep them from coming to me with the truth. And thus they would feel complicit in it. It would also immediately place a damper on Sherrie's relationship with mystery man, as she worked to rewin the respect of her parents.

Soon afterwards, I would begin to act sulky and despondent. After some internal debate, I even decided that I would lose my job. Any attempts to get me to communicate about my troubles would be stonewalled. That alone would send up a red flag in her mind, and Sherrie would be forced to consider that she might be the source of my misery. She might even begin to suspect her parents of secretly going behind her back… why else would I suddenly start acting like I knew, at a time when I'm sure she would be cooling things with her lover while she dealt with the new problems? If it didn't add to the rift between them, it would certainly make reconciliation more difficult.

Finally, I would confront her… in front of her parents… at Christmas. It was two weeks away. Christmas was a big deal holiday in her household, more religious than merry. I had always put up with it without complaint. I cared about these people, and they cared about this day, so there it was. But when I finally broke down and asked her if she was cheating on me, on that day, in that house, with those people, she would effectively be left defenseless. Any attempt to rationalize the destruction of her marriage in front of her parents on a day set aside for spiritual purposes would make the growing divide between them permanent. She would be forced to confess, and to do so in a totally defenseless way. I would then tell her I didn't think I could stay married to her, but that I desperately needed one last Christmas gift from her: I needed her to help me punish the man who had taken my life away. What choice would she have? Her own parents would be on the verge of disowning her, they would be hurting for me, and I'd be giving her one small way to help make things a little better. So she would go to her superiors, admit the affair, claim him as the aggressor and as having initiated it at work, and that would be that. Would he lose his job? I don't give a fuck. What would matter was that, after she did that to him, she could never count on him to be her prince charming ever again.

On my way home, I called my boss and told him I needed to take a week's personal leave time. He asked if it was medical in nature, and I thought about lying to him, but in the end I simply said, "No. I came home early today and found my wife cheating on me. I don't think I'm in a place emotionally to be anything but a threat to those around me."

"Jesus, Mark," he said. "I'm so sorry. Take the week. Don't do anything stupid."

"I won't. And thanks." I would be sad to have to walk away from my job, and especially those people, but I couldn't really find another way to make my emotional "collapse" seem believable and sizable enough.

When I got home, an hour and a half earlier than normal, she was still there. I guess she'd taken a half day for the party. There was no sign that anything untoward had gone on, but her hair was clearly still wet from a shower. She looked more than a little surprised to see me… I'm sure my unexpected arrival reminded her just how dangerous her activities were.

"H… honey," she said, looking up from her magazine. "You're early. Is something wrong?"

"Pink eye," I said. "You're early, too."

"Oh. Yeah. My head was bothering me and I had already finished all of my important work for the day, anyway, so I took off a few hours early."

"More than a few, I'd say. The dishes are all done and you look like you had time to shower."

Her eyes flicked away from mine for a moment while she thought. "Oh. Yeah. I guess I didn't really look at the time, but it must have been soon after lunch. The shower made my headache feel better."

"Huh."

"Your eye is so red!" she said with genuine concern. "When did that start?"

"This morning. Maybe around 10 or so."

"Was the quick care that busy?"

"Not really," I walked over to the sink and got a glass of water, purposefully not looking at her. "They let me go a little before lunch. I ran home to get a book, first, before hitting the clinic."

A very pregnant pause met my admission. "Oh," was all she managed.

I poured my water and drank half the glass, stretching out the horrified silence, before smiling to her and saying, "Funny thing is, no sooner had I reached the end of the block then I remembered that I had that Brain Rules book bouncing around the back seat. So I just turned around and was on my way. Added twenty minutes to my drive time for nothing."

She looked relieved. "Oh. Well, that's good," she said absently.

"Good?" I asked. "How is that good?"

"It's good that you had a book. That's all." She looked flustered, now. "So will you be taking a few days off work? Maybe we could take them together?"

"Nope. Lady said that as long as I wash my hands regularly and keep putting the eyedrops in, I shouldn't have to worry about spreading the infection. I'll be going back in tomorrow."

"Oh." She seemed genuinely disappointed. That struck me as odd. Why the hell would you want to spend your afternoons with me, bitch? We both know you've got other things going on. "Well, maybe we can make some time for just us this weekend? I've been missing you."

That's what you told him, too. "Me, too. Tell you what: we should go out for supper tonight. What do you say? Maybe we can even find the motivation to enjoy each other's company tonight. It's been a week since we've done that." I did that cartoony 'get my drift' eyebrow up and down.

Her face flushed, and she looked away. "Dinner sounds nice, but… with my head and your eye… " she trailed off. How do you shoot your husband down when he's trying to give you exactly what you both know you want? Especially when you're shooting him down because you're a little sore from fucking another man?

I acted hurt. Hell, I was. I didn't want to touch her, but it still wounded. "Oh. Okay. Forget it. Let's just do dinner, then."

"Honey," she reached out to hug me, "I'm sorry. It's just…"

"No," I stepped away. "It's fine. I just need to put my eyedrops in and wash my hands before we go. You choose the restaurant… I chose last time."

I walked off to the bathroom. She didn't say a word.

Dinner that night was surprisingly easy to enjoy, and while I had great reservations about sleeping in that bed I figured I could manage to do so for a short while. I only needed to wait until they got together again. He'd said that it had been almost a week, but he'd said it like that was unusual. I would bide my time.

Turns out I didn't have to wait long at all. The very next day, I got up early and took off as if I was going to work. I drove around for half an hour, and then swung around and parked a few blocks from the house. Throwing on a hat and gloves, I walked back in the direction of my home. The plan was to hang out there all day, every day, until they made their next mistake. Then I would start phase one of my plan. I didn't have any idea on what I might do if it turned out that they didn't always use my house to fuck in… and I still don't know what I would have done. I never had to find out. I was stopped short about four houses down from my own by the sight of Sherrie scurrying out in her pajamas, robe, and slippers to put an envelope in the mailbox. She should have left for work right after me. Clearly, she wasn't going anywhere today. In spite of the cold, I made the decision to wait and see what happened. Sure enough, less than twenty minutes later that goddamn car was coming up the road. The garage door opened… I remembered that my opener had gone inexplicably missing about four months ago and I'd had to replace it. I wondered now if Sherrie had given it to her lover.

Four months? Jesus.

As soon as the garage door closed I ran back to my car.

I drove and reparked about a block away… no reason to hide, now… and then I called Sherrie's work. I was told that she wasn't in today… that she'd taken yesterday and today off sick. I acted surprised and admitted that I knew nothing about it, and then hung up.

Next I called the house phone. It rang and rang… I knew it would. That was the plan. Sherrie wouldn't dare answer the phone when she had no way of knowing who might be on the other line. Not when everybody in the world except her boss was supposed to think she was at work. When the machine picked up, I hung up.

Finally, I called her mom.

"Hi, Mark!" she answered.

"Hey, Marv," I said jovially. Marva was a sweet old woman, but she was tough as nails and I'd taken to calling her Marv many years ago. "Listen, are you and Edward busy right now?"

"Oh," she said, "we were about to go out to look at a new snowblower is all. Why do you ask?"

"That's perfect, actually. I'm just concerned about Sherrie. She was up and ready for work when I left this morning, but I called her at the office and they said she's taking a day for illness. I called the house phone but nobody answers. Do you think you could swing by on your way and check on her?"

"Hmm," she sounded thoughtful, "sure we can. You think anything serious could be wrong?"

"No. Maybe she's just in bed. But I'd like to know she's alright. And, if she is sick, she could probably use a little help."

"You're a sweet man, Mark. We'll check on her."

"Thanks."

After we hung up, I rubbed my hands together and waited. I had the engine turned off… Sherrie's parents lived just over a mile up the way in the other direction, so they wouldn't go by me on their way in, but I didn't want the exhaust drawing their attention.

Sure enough, ten minutes later they were pulling up into the driveway. They must not have called ahead, or if they did they didn't leave a message either, because shithead hadn't left the house. I was glad. Using the key they had, Marva and Larry went straight in through the front door.

I felt a little bad for them, for what was no doubt happening right now. They didn't deserve to be hurt by Sherrie's decision any more than I had. We were all just down in the mine, she'd lit the match. But, after more than twenty-four hours of hurting on my own, I was downright giddy when I thought of what Sherrie must be experiencing.

Not three minutes after they walked in the front door, the garage door opened and shithead's car tore out the driveway and down the street. His tires screeched, he was in such a hurry.

The garage door closed.

After that, silence.

I had a thought. I called work again.

"Hey," my boss said. "How are you, Mark? Things looking any better on the home front?"

"Yes and no," I said. "Do me a favor… if anybody not work-related calls looking for me, have the secretaries tell them I'm out on assignment. I don't want to talk to my wife or her parents just now, and I'm worried that they might not take no for an answer."

"I can do that. Should we be expecting you back soon, or is it still a week?"

I thought about that. "I'll be in tomorrow, Tom. I might as well be."

"You sure?"

"I'm sure."

"Well, I'm glad to know it. See you then, Mark."

I watched the house for two more hours, curiosity driving me crazy, before I finally just decided to up and head out. I wasn't going to find anything else out this way, and it should be enough for now to know that the first step in my plan had worked. I spent the rest of the day driving around, window shopping at sporting goods stores. I did stop and pay cash for a 375 of tequila to take edge off, and it helped. Although I had shied away from it since college, my family was a crew of drinkers and my tolerance level seemed to be inherited. My own father, now living in Texas and in his late 60's, still bought two bottles of scotch every Friday night, and they would both inevitably be gone by the following Friday. I never remember seeing him drunk… he would just have a drink at lunch, another at supper, and a third before bed. Every day. Always. Mom was just as bad. Today, I decided it was okay to join them.

When I got home that night, Sherrie was in bed. Her parents had gone by that point, and there was a note in my wife's handwriting on the table. It simply said that she still wasn't feeling well and that she had taken the day off, and that she loved me. Nothing more. Huh.

I wondered what all her parents had said to her. I mean, there was really no doubt about how they would view their daughter's indiscretion, but as far as just how severely they'd come down on her I couldn't guess. Obviously they hadn't been too nice to shithead, from the way he'd torn out of there, so I imagined they must have been pretty livid. I peaked my head in the bedroom, but she was either asleep or faking it.

Whatever.

I didn't sleep at all that night. The next day I went into work early, but I couldn't concentrate on anything. Images of my wife rising and lowering herself on another man's pole kept intruding. The imagined sound of her voice eagerly calling him after her fool husband had left for work. The way she leaned back and rode him, sillhouetted by the sun streaming in through the thin material of the curtains.

After a few hours, without thinking much about it, I opened a Word document and began typing. I just mindlessly began telling my story in the guise of a fictional tale. I don't know why. I don't even really know if I thought about it. I just wrote. I changed the names, but wasted no time in punishing my protagonist with the same bleak scenario I had faced:

I looked in on them, my whole life deflating by the instant, I wrote. This wasn't mindless rutting, or some horny drive to couple. That would have been painful enough. This was worse. It was lovemaking. My wife making love to another man. The woman who was half of me, taking that half away.

I had effectively told the story of my day up to that point. But then, though I didn't know why, I began to change events.

I couldn't bring myself to move. I thought I might vomit at any moment. I felt two simultaneous urges… one sending me towards the betrayers for vengeance and the other begging me to run as far away as I could get. My feet moved before I could react, each inclined towards a different goal, and so instead of doing either I simply stumbled and fell to the ground.

The sound alerted them. I kept my head down, not wanting to see any more, but I heard a lot of movement from the room and the sound of my wife cussing. For my part, I was still dazed. I pushed my back up against the wall in a sitting position, drawing my knees up to my chin. The door opened and Beth's robe-covered legs came into view. I heard her gasp my name, but I didn't look up.

"Wha… what are you doing home?" she asked. "Are you okay?" I thought that was a funny question to ask.

"Can you ask him to leave?" I responded quietly, my voice as hoarse as if I'd spent the entire morning yelling.

"Who… yes." She shuffled away, and a moment later I saw him rush past. I didn't bother looking to see who it was. It didn't matter.

For a while I was alone, there. She didn't come back out right away. I heard the shower running, and her talk to somebody on the phone, and then finally Beth was with me again. "I'm so sorry," she said.

"Do you love him?"

It took her too long to answer. "No," was the word she gave me, but it was a bad joke. I couldn't help it. I started crying. "I asked my parents to come get me," she said. "I'll stay with them, until… until you decide what you want to do."

"What do I want to do?"

She crouched down next to me. I could see that she'd been crying, too. She shook her head sadly. "I know you won't believe me when I say this, but I do love you and I do want to stay married."

"You shouldn't go."

"I shouldn't?" She looked hopeful.

"No. I should. It's not like I could ever sleep in there again," I waved to the bedroom. "I'll find a place and… call you. If that's okay."

She put her hand over her mouth, fresh tears growing, and nodded. Then she ran back into the bedroom and I heard her sobs.

After a while, I got up and left.

I sat back, looked at my story, and frowned. I was exhausted, half-dazed from lack of sleep, and swimming in emotional turmoil, but none of that explained why I would want to write such a story. Why had I taken and turned myself into such a wimp? Why would I write a new version of events in which I totally succumbed to the agony I had in reality buried deep down? The agony that I was making a concentrated effort to contain.

I couldn't answer that, so I quit writing.

I got some work done and, at the end of the day, I went back to that story and wrote a little about the sorrow I felt at the complete way my wife had failed me. I even wrote a little about the questions I had as to whether I might have done something differently in order to prevent it. But the plot remained stagnant. When I closed it, I hesitated at the computer's question before ultimately deciding to save it. I was so exhausted I almost decided to call a cab to take me home.

That night was the first I'd seen of Sherrie since the shit hit the fan. She was quiet and reserved, but also seemed a bit contrite in her behavior. I noted the circles under her eyes, but didn't bother saying anything about them.

"Hi, honey," she greeted me. "How was your day?"

"Oh. Alright. Not as exciting as yesterday, that's for sure." I let that hang a moment. "How about yours? Are you feeling better now?"

She looked away. "I think so. I'm still really tired, but I think that… whatever I had… is over now." She brightened up. "And I'm glad, because we've only one more day until the weekend. Are we still planning big things?"

I forced a smile. "You'd better believe it." I turned to walk down the hall… I was eager to put something more comfortable on… when her voice stopped me.

"Mark?" she said. "I know I've been… well, I guess I feel like I haven't been giving our marriage as much attention as I should, lately. I want you to know that… that I'm sorry. I'm going to do better."

What was this? It wasn't an admission, but it sure sounded like a woman who actually wants to stay married. Somehow, that likelihood hadn't really occurred to me. I tried to figure how I might have responded to that statement before I knew the truth of her actions.

I turned around and walked back, taking her in my arms. "You have seemed preoccupied," I lied, "but I understand. I kind of assumed that, whatever it was, it had more to do with your job than with me. After all, if you were ever unhappy with me, or about anything that I could help you with, you would come to me before doing anything else, right?"

I felt her hug become weak. "Yes. Of course."

"And I hope you know that I would do whatever I could to help you with any problem," I said, enjoying myself. "So when you didn't come and talk to me, I assumed that it was something I couldn't help with, something that you needed to fix on your own. I hope this conversation means everything is back to normal?"

"Definitely." The hug found renewed strength.

"So can you tell me what it was?" I asked. She stiffened against me. "Was it work?"

"I… yes… it was… it was so many things. Just… little things. A lot of little things."

"Oh. Okay. Well, I'm glad you're back now." I stepped back, and went to change. "What's for supper?"

That night she was very attentive, trying hard to get me talking about my day, and then listening carefully and asking questions. Playing the devoted wife. I went along for the ride, but when she tried to entice me to make love to her that night, I drew the line.

"Honey," I said when she snuggled up next to me and ran her hand over my chest, "I'm really tired. Besides, we're both just coming off being sick. Let's save it for the weekend."

Her hand slipped away and she propped herself up in the bed. You can bet I never turned down sex. She looked at me in the dark for a moment.

"Are you sure?" she asked nervously. "I miss you."

"I miss you, too," I said, and in my own way I meant it. "Just give me a night to rest. I'm looking forward to destroying you." I said it with a sly tone, so that she took it to be a sexual promise. With a giggle, she lay down and rolled over. Shortly, she was asleep.

Me? I spent a second night in a row wide awake. I thought some about her new attitude, whether it changed things, but I ultimately decided that it didn't. There are a hundred thousand reasons why our marriage wasn't something I was willing to emotionally commit to anymore, and a hundred thousand other people who will gladly explain it to you. For my part, I'll just leave it as a statement of fact. We were done.

The next day I went to work early to avoid seeing her, and as I sat in the early morning traffic I wondered. I wondered what she was thinking, what she was hoping. It was hard to read. Did she want to repair the damage she'd done to our marriage? Was she hoping that it would all blow over and she could get back to her lover? Was she really even calling things off with him, now, or were they just being more discrete until the coast was clear?

Had her parents' discovery ruined her plans, set them back, or simply brought to light a terrible but ongoing mistake that she made with no real aim or direction?

I found myself getting sad. Probably, some of it was the lack of sleep. Going on three days with little sleep is bound to make anybody moody. I knew I could use that to my advantage after work tonight, but for now it feeling lonely and depressed was a burden, nothing more. For the near future, I had my plans and manipulations to keep me distracted. Little goals were being set and met, and that kept the big picture from intruding. But it was there, and it was ugly: soon to be divorced man taking his earliest steps into middle age, career healthy but not anything special… not anything that will ever make him wealthy. Hair still there but starting to show signs of thinning. Bags under his eyes from years of hard work. Hard work on nothing. I sat at one particularly long red light and looked at myself in the vanity mirror.

"Who," I asked the reflection, "is ever going to want to take a chance on you?"

The man in the mirror just looked back at me.

By the time I got to work, though, I was bored with the sulking. So I set it aside. There wasn't any purpose to it, except that it would help me define future goals once this mess was over and done. More exercise? A career change? Move to Europe? If ever I was going to experiment with who I was…

I didn't get any work done that day, but I didn't do much else either. I left three hours later than normal.

Driving home that night, I was excited. It was time for phase two of my plan. A new short term goal, attainable and with immediate reward, to take my mind off the troubles. Sherrie was looking forward to a romantic weekend, to making up with her husband and getting on with her life. It would be so good for her, I'm sure, to have that little bit of reassurance that the consequences of her actions would turn out to be brief and relatively minor. In fact, if this were to turn out to be a reconnecting weekend of passion I'm sure she would tell herself that her affair had been a good thing because it ultimately led to us affirming our bond in a way we otherwise would not have done. She would think our relationship stronger because of it.

Instead, she was going to get two and a half days of sulky, withdrawn Mark and his refusal to talk about whatever was upsetting him. Nothing she could do or offer would help… in fact, if she made the mistake of trying to sooth me with affection or sex she would find that only made it worse. No, there would be no marriage saving weekend. There was nothing left to save. What Sherrie was going to get was the first ringing toll of the bell to let her know that it was, indeed, over.

I bought another 375 of tequila on the way home. I drank it fast, letting a good portion spill down my chin and onto my clothes. As I pulled into the garage, I could feel the first vestiges of a thick buzz running through the space behind my eyeballs. I stumbled a bit as I came into the house.

Sherrie was there, dressed up, and a little anxious looking. She must have been concerned about my lateness. She ran up to greet me.

"Honey! I was worr… " she trailed off as she reached me, saw the dull and angry look in my eyes, and smelled the tequila. "Wh… what's going on? Have you been drinking?"

I looked at her a long moment, pinching my face into a self-pitying bitterness, and said, "I have to pee." Then I pushed past her and stumbled into the bathroom. When I came out, she was sitting at the table with a glass of white wine in her hands. The bottle was sitting in the middle of the table, and an empty glass had been set at my place.

"I thought I'd join the party, if that's okay?" She was attempting a smile, but she looked positively terrified. I noted her careful decision not to push me into telling her what was wrong. Instead, she was trying to subtly bring me back to where she had hoped I'd be. It was a weak attempt on her part to roll with the punches and make the most of her relationship-saving weekend plans. But I wasn't about to give her even that much.

"Do whatever the fuck you want," I snapped. "I'm going to bed."

She deflated a little bit. "Is… is something wrong?"

I looked at her silently, and for the first time since discovering the truth I let my heartache show on my face. "Yes," I whispered, and then I turned and shuffled away. She didn't say a word, or try to come after me. I got ready for bed, climbed in, and lay there for a long time staring at the ceiling. I could hear her on the phone to someone, talking low. Probably, she was trying to find out if her parents had squealed on her. Would she believe them when they assured her that they hadn't? Or would a liar find it hard to trust others? If she believed them, what paranoias might infest her thinking? I smiled to myself in the dark.

The night passed quickly. Still no sleep… I might have dozed a bit, but I was awake enough to know I needed to fake sleep when she finally came to bed sometime after midnight. Mostly, I thought about how to best sell my position in the morning, and I listened to Sherrie toss and turn under the sheets. I don't think she slept real well, either.

Saturday morning, I got up early again and had a healthy breakfast. I noticed that the bottle of wine, still sitting on the kitchen table, was now empty. I threw it away.

It had snowed during the night, so I went out and shoveled off the walk. It felt pretty good, to be honest. I don't usually like the cold, and have often fantasized about moving, but being out there physically exerting myself was really enjoyable. It got the blood pumping, and helped me focus. It also made me think that maybe I should get myself a gym membership when all of this was over.

When I came back inside, Sherrie was up. She looked terrible. She never was much of a drinker.

She offered me a, "Good morning, honey," her eyes searching and hopeful. I nodded, gave her a searching look right back, and then went off to shower. By the time I came out she'd had breakfast, and was picking out what to wear for the day.

"Are we… are you still up for some romance this weekend?" she asked. "It would sure make me happy if you gave me the chance to cheer you up a little." I didn't respond, just went about the process of putting on a pair of ratty jeans that I only ever used for yardwork days. Take the hint, bitch. She watched me sadly. Then, she came over and tried rubbing my shoulders. "Baby, whatever is upsetting you, I… I know it can't be as big a thing as all this. Whether it's something at work, or… or something else, it can be fixed. I know it can. You just have to let go of it, and not let it consume you. Problems do go away, if you let them."

I jerked away from her grip, and glared at her over my shoulder. I opened my mouth, ready to tear into her for even believing in such a bullshit solution. Then, I remembered my goals. I wanted her to see the pain her actions had brought, and I wanted to force her into becoming a more active participant in the covering up. So I let my shoulders sag, and gave her my best hangdog look. "This one's too big," I said morosely. "I don't know that I can solve it, except to just die." Then, I sat down on the edge of the bed and looked at the floor.

She didn't move. Her breathing was labored, like she'd just run a race. I knew I'd stunned her, by hitting her with the entirety of the tragedy all at once. She started to cry. I had to fight from smiling. She really bought that shit.

"Is there anything I can do?" she asked at last. "Anything at all?" It caught me off guard a little bit. I didn't expect her to be brave enough to risk such a loaded question. I thought about my response.

"Maybe there was, once," I admitted. "But I think it's too late now."

With that, she ran from the room.

The rest of the weekend went about the same. I played the part of the broken man, and she alternated between tears and terror. I think she figured that the other shoe was going to drop at any time.

Acting sad wasn't really all that big a challenge. I just had to think about the affectionate and loving way she'd spoken to him, as she'd given herself to him on our bed. That was an image that was going to be with me for a long time.

A few times, I thought she might actually confess to me. She would seem to square up her shoulders and would start a line about how important our honesty had always been, how it had always seen us through, but she never quite seemed to get to the point of admission.

By Sunday night, I could see that her conscience was killing her. She looked as bad as I did, and would give me long, weary, sympathetic looks whenever she didn't think I could see. Sherrie felt terrible, and she knew it was too late to fix it.

Well, she should feel terrible, goddamn it.

Monday morning, I was all smiles. I still wasn't sleeping… I did grab over an hour Sunday night… and I was moving through a world that seemed half hidden in haze, but I was starting to affect things. And my loving wife was coming apart at the seams. After what she had done to me, it felt cathartic to be able to impact her in some way.

When I got to my office and powered up my computer, the first thing I noticed was that Word document sitting on my desktop. I don't know why I did it, but I opened it and started writing. I'd left off with the characters having remained separated for a period of days, reflecting, and I continued from there.

"I'm glad you came," she said quietly. "I've missed you."

"Isn't that what you told him?" I asked, but I couldn't make myself say it with any venom. She looked down at her folded hands.

We were sitting in the living room, our first meeting since I caught her. I'd spent three days at a hotel before deciding that it was costing too much money, and then I'd spent an additional two days on a friend's couch. Now, I finally felt like I had myself together enough to talk to her.

She looked terrible, and for some reason that didn't make me happy. "Do you think there's a chance for us?" she asked.

I sighed. "That's such a loaded question, Beth. I mean, you cheated on me. You took that thing that was just for us, and gave it to someone else. You gave it to him in my house, in my bed, and you almost couldn't bring yourself to lie to me and say that you didn't love him."

"I didn't!" she said. "I mean… not like I love you. It's not like that."

"What's it like, then?"

She looked nervous, like she was fighting with herself about what to say. "It was affectionate, between him and me. I can't say there wasn't… emotion… there. But it wasn't love, or not any more so than the kind of love you might feel for a close friend."

"But he was important to you."

She closed her eyes. "Yes."

"How did it start?"

"Johnny," she said, "please don't make me… tell you about it. About him."

"Why not?" This time I did snap. "Is it none of my business? Do you feel like I don't have the right to know?"

"It's not that," she sobbed. "I'm just so scared that anything I might say could… could make you leave again. I don't want that."

"Well, I promise you this. If you don't tell me everything, I am leaving. I'm leaving, and not coming back. No doubt about that."

She broke down, and I waited until she was able to pull herself back together. "Okay. I'll try. I will."

"I think I can help you," I said. "I know a few things about affairs. I've been reading up. I know that when a man cheats it's pretty hit or miss about who he'll choose. Men who are out to cheat will screw just about anything. But a woman who has an affair is different. She almost always chooses a man who is both of a higher social class than herself and her husband, and a man who is more attractive than her husband. I know that guy works in your office, so I'm going to guess that in addition to being more handsome than I am he's also pretty high up on the totem pole. Anything wrong so far?"

She was fighting tears again. "I don't think he's more handsome than you."

"Liar. Now, I'm guessing that since you work together and he's a dashing dreamboat authority figure, that he picked you out to woo and that you let him. Maybe it was just the way he looks, or the flattery of it, but you let it happen. Am I wrong there?"

She shook her head, losing the battle and crying.

"How long ago was that?"

She shook her head again.

"HOW LONG?!"

"Six months."

I stared at her. "Six months. Jesus." I felt like throwing up. "Can you tell me what our relationship lacked? I mean, there must have been something, for you to do this to me. What was I doing wrong?"

"Nothing! Nothing! You have to believe that! It was never about you."

"The hell it wasn't. It was always about me. It was about betraying me, replacing me, and denying me. So tell me why, goddamn it!"

"I don't know!" She looked completely lost. I believed her.

"One more question for today," I said, "and then we're done. For now," I clarified when her eyes grew wide. "Just for now. I've also read that women are more likely to be freer sexually with their affair than they might be in their marriage. A majority of women who cheat use it as an opportunity to experiment with their sexual identity. So tell me… what did you do for him that you don't do for me?"

"Oh, god, Johnny," she pulled her legs up, curling into a ball, and cried. And just like that, I didn't want to know. I didn't want to know what it was that my wife had given her lover and denied me. The potential list was staggering… anal sex? Swallowing? Had she dabbled in bondage, or had she worn sexy lingerie? Did they act out fantasies together? Did they fuck in a public place? I didn't want to know. It was enough to know that she had, in fact, put me on the low side of her sexual equation. He'd gotten the whole number, I'd gotten a fraction.

"I need to go," I mumbled, stumbling as I rushed to the door, trying to control my tears.

I left the story up the rest of the day as I worked, occasionally adding details to it. My character continued to see his wife, to talk about what had happened, and continued to brood over what he should do with his life. I could think of no good reason for writing the goddamn thing… I could never see myself handling an affair the way he was… but it was oddly enjoyable to write it.

At the end of the day, I was halfway home before I realized that I'd left my computer on and the story up when I'd left. Fucking lack of sleep was screwing me up.

I started to think about how things were going. Sherrie was a wreck, which was good. But she was a long ways away from broken, yet. I needed to step up the misery at home. It also occurred to me that I only had eight days left in which to lose my job. I had probably started on that part of the plan soon. I would miss it, but it felt necessary. Sherrie needed to think that my whole life had collapsed, and that she'd been the one to cause it all to happen. Throw in her natural Catholic guilt, and you had a life lesson that would bother her until the day she died.

When I got home, I was surprised to see Sherrie's parents' car in the driveway. I wondered what that could be about.

They were all sitting around the table waiting for me when I walked in. I noted the looks of sadness on Larry and Marva's faces. I felt genuine pity for them. Sherrie, for her part, looked anxious. She was watching all of us closely.

"Hi, Marv," I said without my usual cheer. "Hey, Edward. What brings you two here?"

"Oh," Edward tried for affable, "we were just in the neighborhood. Thought we'd see how you two lovebirds were getting along."

"Lovebirds," I said flatly. "Is that what you think?"

"I… er… " he glanced over at the women, his eyes flashing anger as his daughter looked at him beseechingly, "truth is Sherrie is worried about you. She says you've been acting depressed, but won't talk to her about it. She's worried, son… she doesn't know what she can do, to help you."

"In all honesty, Ed, I don't think you would understand."

Marva cut in at that. "I think you'd be surprised by just what we understand," she said, her tone hard. Sherrie looked miserable.

"Thing is," Edward gave his wife a patient look, "life throws us some hardballs. And sometimes, life doesn't always have to do the throwing. Sometimes people we trust do it first. The question, Mark, is never how do we make everything better. The question is how do we find a way to live with it?"

I looked over at him, a little bit of my respect for him showing. Without actually saying it, he'd acknowledged what everybody in the room already knew: his daughter had let us all down, and now we were all suffering. We were all going to have to learn to live with it, in some way.

I could see there was some truth to what he was saying, and I might have been encouraged to continue the discussion with him, but Sherrie didn't know when to quit. "We CAN make everything better. I know we can, honey," she said, throwing her father an exasperated look. "You just have to let me help you. I just want to help you!"

I looked from her to her father and back again. She looked hopeful, while he kind of shook his head at her words and gave me an understanding look.

"I need to be alone," I told them. "I'm really sorry, but I just don't want to be around people right now."

"We understand," Marva said, and Edward nodded, but Sherrie started crying.

"Please, Mark!" she said. "Don't go through this alone. I know we can…"

"SHUT UP!"

The words hadn't come from me. It was her father who had finally had enough of her bullshit. I fought the urge to stare as he stormed over and grabbed her by the arm. Talk about payoff.

"Marva," he said, "get the car started. Sherrie, get your shoes and coat. Now. The man wants to be alone, he's gonna get left alone for awhile. And nobody is going to say otherwise," he glared at his daughter. She looked shocked, and terrified. Maybe Marva did, too. Either way, they were gone in less than two minutes.

I couldn't stop from pumping my fist in the air and whooping after the car had pulled away. When I'd decided to involve her parents, I'd never dreamed that the results would be so fantastic. And now she would have to spend a solemn, bitter meal with them while her sulking husband cried at home alone.

Right.

I made a frozen pizza and looked at porn online. It was the first time I'd thought about sex since I'd found them together, and it was great. Afterwards, I decided that I wanted to be in bed when my loving wife returned home. No reason to give her another chance to try and talk me out of my moodiness. But I wanted to leave her a present so that she couldn't gloss over the turmoil she'd caused, so I took out a few plates and glasses and threw them around the kitchen. The shattered glass and ceramic, and the accompanying marks on the wall, seemed like a pretty nice 'welcome home' present.

I wasn't in bed very long before she returned home. Her parents walked her in, talking quietly, and they all fell very quiet for a long time after they reached the kitchen. After a time, Sherrie checked in on me. I feigned sleep. I don't know how long they stayed, or what time she came to bed. I was so lost in my thoughts that I barely paid her any attention. When I got up the next morning everything was cleaned up.

Coming into the office the next morning I was surprised to see my boss sitting at my desk. He appeared engrossed in something on the screen, but he sheepishly leapt up as I entered the room. I couldn't figure…

Oh, shit.

My story! I'd left it up when I'd gone home.

"Mark," he said, fidgeting with his fingers like he always did when he was nervous. "I'm so sorry. I… uh… you hadn't been getting your reports in, and you weren't answering any of my e-mails. I thought maybe you just… " he trailed off eyes darting to the screen. "Is that really how it happened? The way you wrote it?"

I took a deep breath. Talk about embarrassing. "No way. Well, I mean, the first part is. But I didn't react the way that guy is reacting. Not at all."

"So what… " he glanced at the computer, confusion on his face. "What are you writing about?"

"I don't know. I haven't been able to sleep since I saw them together, and I can't always think straight. To be honest, it confuses the hell out of me. But I can't seem to stop writing it."

"But she was really… with him… in your bed? In your house?"

"Yes."

He shook his head. "So, if you don't mind me asking… how DID you react? How did you not kill them both?"

"I thought about it, right up until she started talking. Then I knew that it was too late to matter, so I had to ask myself what I felt it would take for me to be able to move forward."

"What did you decide?"

After a moment's hesitation, I told him. I told him all of it. My plan, including the part about getting fired, and how it had been going. He seemed enthralled by it all, and was grinning by the end.

"That sounds fantastic… except the part about getting fired. Look, you really have been falling behind deadlines. I could put you on leave for as much as a few months, if you want. That way you don't have to walk away if you don't want to. If it'll help, I'll even put in a concerned phone call to your wife about how you're moping around and not doing any work. I'll make it sound like you're about to get fired."

"That might be preferable to quitting. I'll think about it. The phone call is definitely a nice touch."

He nodded, his brow furrowing thoughtfully. "So if in reality you are bent on retribution and enforcing consequences for her actions, then why in the story is this guy… this guy who is supposed to be you… why are you trying to make it work with her? That seems so weird to me, that you would write yourself a fantasy in which you're a much softer person. That's not who you are. No offense."

I shrugged. "Like I said, I can't figure it, either. I only know that I can't stop writing it. It feels strangely good to put this alternative reality on paper, even if I'd never go for it." I shrugged. "I've been asking myself over and over why that might be, but I don't know."

"Hmm," he scratched his chin. "So there really is no hope for you two? It's definitely over?"

"I think so, yeah. Every night I'm home with her I just get angrier. I don't see how I could ever get back to the kind of honest, open relationship we had before. I'll never trust her again. And I'll certainly never sleep with her again."

"It's just so sad. You two always seemed the perfect couple."

"I thought so, too." I sat down in my chair. This was making me tired.

"Well, just make sure you don't have any doubts before you pull the trigger on this. It's not too late to rethink, but it will be soon." He smiled. "Listen to me. What an asshole I am. When should I make the call to your wife?"

"Today. As soon as you can. You have her work number on file, but I can write it down for you if you'd prefer."

"No. That's fine. I need to start the paperwork to put you on leave anyway. Want to start that today?"

I thought about it, and shrugged. "Sure. Why not."

After he left, I looked at my story for a long time. And then I started typing.

"Where do we go from here?" she asked.

I didn't know what to say. After two months of counseling and countless attempts on both our parts to reignite our relationship, we were still dealing with the after-effects of her affair. Twice we had attempted intimacy, and twice I had been unable to perform. She had finally broken down and suggested that I have an affair, as well, and I had stormed out on her in a rage. We both had a much better understanding of what had led to her fall, but it didn't do anything to my confidence in her to have it clinically analyzed and explained away. The truth was, for all our efforts, I was just holding myself back emotionally because I was scared of her. Dreadfully so.

"I wish I knew," I admitted. "It doesn't seem to be getting any better, does it?"

She shook her head. "You're wrong. It has gotten better. I'm much more aware of just how awful a thing it was for me to do to you. I much more aware of your pain. And it's killing me. I'm in pain all of the time. I never stop thinking about you, and how you must be feeling."

"And you call that 'getting better?'" I asked.

"I do! I want to have that pain, and I want you to see me experiencing it! It's important, I think, for both of us."

I thought about that a minute. "But it still doesn't seem like a way forward."

"Maybe not," she said, "But it doesn't have to. It doesn't have to look like anything. For all the directions you can turn yourself there is only one forward, and you are always moving there."

I stared at her a minute, speechless. She gave me a sad smile. It was a look that said she understood. No matter what I said next, no matter what I decided I would do, she understood.

"It's going to take a long time," I told her.

"Then we'll let it," she said. "I think you'll be amazed to learn just how long I'm ready to hold on for."

"Then I guess I'd like to find out."

The End.

I read the words I'd just typed. They seemed to carry such a nice sentiment with them… such a powerful statement about the strength that love can have, even in the face of destruction. I wondered why they moved me so much. I saved the file, and then I shut down my computer.

A little after lunch Tom came back in. "I just had a little conversation with your wife," he winked. "Wanna hear about it?"

"You know I do."

He obviously took great joy in telling me about it. He smiled all through the explanation of how he'd expressed grave concern about my attitude, my emotional state, and my apparent inability to do my job. He told me he'd asked her if she knew of any reason why it might be happening, and she'd stumbled her way through a few sentences about how she had no idea. She only knew that I was pulling away, and she didn't know what to do about it.

"So then I said, 'Oh, that's too bad. Unless we can figure out what's going on, we're probably going to have to suspend him for a while. And that's usually just a prerequisite to termination.' She was so stunned, she didn't say a thing. Here she knew exactly why you were so depressed, and she couldn't bring herself tell me… even to save your job! So when you come home tonight with the news, you'll have to watch and see how she takes it." He laughed.

"That's perfect," I laughed with him. "I'll let you know how it goes."

"Please do." His smile faded. "Please do." He looked uncomfortable for a minute, and then said, "You're still sure about this?"

"I really am."

"Then good luck. We'll see you in February."

That night, for the first time in what seemed like forever, I slept.

The last few days before Christmas passed slowly. I moped around the house when Sherrie was there, and I enjoyed my time alone when she wasn't. I thought a few times about that story, but didn't reach any conclusions. After I was put on leave, Sherrie began to look worse and worse. I'm sure she was losing weight. I made it a point to match her, and maintain my "most miserable person" award-winning performance. I saw less and less of her. She wasn't avoiding me, just withdrawing. She would sit at the kitchen table for hours, not saying a thing. Sometimes I forgot she was even there.

The day before Christmas, Sherrie asked me if I wanted to cancel the trip to her folks'. We hadn't seen them since the blow-up, so I think she was looking for an excuse not to go. I insisted.

When we got there, it was a solemn affair. The small talk was painfully limited, especially since the subject of jobs had become taboo. Finally, as Marva was serving dessert, I figured it was time.

"Sherrie," I said suddenly, "I'm sick of this. I can't not say this any more. I know about your affair. I know you cheated on me for months and months, and I don't think it matters that it's over. You took everything we had and ruined it. I think we should get divorced."

When Marva dropped the pie on the floor, it really worked well for me, dramatically speaking. Edward looked like I'd just crapped on his plate, and Sherrie was staring at me with her hand over her mouth.

"No," she whispered. "Oh, god, please, no!"

"I couldn't agree more. I've been feeling exactly the same way ever since I found out. You just… you ruined everything, Sherrie."

"Please," she said. "I'm so sorry. I've been so sorry. Watching you hurt so much has been killing me. Give me a chance, and I'll…"

"No."

"Baby, please!"

"No!"

She broke down into heaving sobs. Her parents were looking on like little kids watching a car accident. I figured the time was right for the final phase of my plan.

"Listen," I said in a softer voice. "Listen. Maybe… maybe we CAN get past this. I don't know. But I will need you to do something for me, if we're even going to have a chance."

"Anything!"

"I know your lover was a man from work. Whatever you took from me was given to him like a trophy. I won't stand for that. I can't." I looked over at her two parents apologetically, like I was ashamed of what I was about to say. "I need you to ruin him. Destroy his career. Bring everything out into the open."

She stared at me, mouth moving but no words issuing forth.

"Is there a problem?"

She winced. "I'll do anything to save our marriage, but… please… don't make me do that." She glanced nervously at her mother. "He has a wife and kids."

I slammed my fist down on the table. "And how dare he have that! How dare he, after what he's done to me." I took a deep breath. "Do you even know how I learned about your affair?" She shook her head. I was gambling here, but I was feeling confident. "He told me. Your fucking lover told me. He called me at work and told me all about it. He showed me pictures, because he wanted me to leave you. He thought you two were going to ride off into the sunset together. HE SHOWED ME PICTURES, Sherrie!"

The gamble paid off. She looked horrified. "I… I told him to stay out of it. I told him I wanted to save my marriage."

"It doesn't look like he gave two shits about what you wanted," I said. "Why should you care about what he wants?"

She put her head down on the table. "I'll do it. I'll do it Monday. I'll…"

"You'll file a sexual harassment complaint, and when they interview you you'll tell them everything. You'll even lie a little, if that's what it takes to destroy him."

She was crying. "Yes. Yes. I'll do it. Oh, god."

I looked at her parents, both of them sagging like propped up sacks of flour. I felt bad for making them watch their daughter promise to lie about a man, and ruin his life, because it would serve her own selfish needs. But it was, after all, a part of the plan.

"I think we should be going," I said.

The next few weeks were a blur. I began looking for a new place to stay, and asked Sherrie to sleep at her folks' house until I could get moved out. I promised her that I wasn't moving out for good (yes, I was), but that I needed to be away from her for a while.

Meanwhile, the mess created by her filing a complaint at work didn't end with her lover getting fired. Sherrie was apologetic about her failure to accomplish that. What she didn't get was that I didn't care. I just wanted the two of them to be unable to rekindle their little flame after I'd gone. I wanted her to be left alone with her shittiness. I also wanted the affair documented in a very legal way, and in effect the filing of the complaint was her admission. As an added bonus, apparently he took that as a sign of even more terrible things to come and took the risk of admitting the whole thing to his wife. How do I know? Because Sherrie told me he showed up at work with a black eye and angrily told her he was getting divorced because of her.

Finally everything was resolved when, on the day that I had arranged for her to be served with divorce papers, I had a revelation. I called my boss and updated him on everything that had happened.

"That sounds like you got what you wanted," he said.

"That's just it," I practically shouted into the phone. "I really didn't. But it's helped me figure out the story. I know what it means!"

"I'm listening."

"Okay," I licked my lips. "Imagine two people. Men, women, doesn't matter. Both of them have a long-term spouse that is cheating on them."

"Okay."

"Now, one of them finds out and seeks revenge. Lucky them, they get it. One hundred percent success. The other doesn't. It doesn't matter why… maybe they don't find out until their partner leaves them for the lover, or maybe they aim for forgiveness and reconcile after much difficulty. Either way, one gets revenge, the other does not."

"Still following you."

"The person who gets blindsided, or the person who forgives, is going to be left with a very real sense that justice was not done. Even if they do forgive, some part of them will always crave the catharsis of revenge. We do this to ourselves all the time. We want to believe the world is fair, and even if we don't want the people we love to suffer, we want the universe to show its impartiality. 'I've been HURT,' we say. 'What will be done about this?' So this person will be driven to write, or read, revenge stories, and any other type will frustrate them. They feel neutered, defeated, in some strange but significant way, and they will want the fantasy of control… of vengeance."

"So we're all just mean fuckers? Is that what you're saying? And some of us happen to contain it better than others?"

"No. I don't mean to say that you spend your whole life wishing your wife would suffer because she won't let you have a football room. And I don't think she fantasizes about punishing you because you never take a turn cleaning the toilet. I'm saying that part of being truly, powerfully hurt by someone you trust is feeling angry. And the person who never gets to effectively express that anger, while they may find a way to bury or live with it, will generally seek out the fantasy of having done so."

"Oh, I see," He said. "But YOU got your revenge…"

"Right. And the person who does so knows it for what it is. It's a con. Does it feel good? Yes. Does it help you move on? Sure. Does it solve anything, or make it so you sleep better at night? No. Will it make it easier to trust again? No. Does it undo what was done to you? Hell no. It's a salve, but not really a healing event."

"So what does the person who gets revenge want?"

"The person who gets their revenge, whose real life reaction was tough and vengeful, will find THEIR catharsis in tales about reconciliation. It's not about wishing they'd taken the other person back. Instead, they reach out for fictional tales about how powerful and eternal love can be… so powerful that it can even survive infidelity. They need this because they can no longer believe that infidelity is something that 'happens to other people.' It will never not be a risk again, in their minds, but they still want to love again someday. So they want to be reassured that their future love can be stronger than whatever terrible things may happen. That doesn't mean that they'll react to infidelity differently in the future… it's just their way of trying to prove to themselves that they still believe in love."

"So the beaten cuckold craves revenge stories, and the avenging angel needs to know that the future can still be bright. Is that it?"

"Not always, and that's a dramatic version, but I think that it has some truth. It helped me that the reconciliation story was able to include the conversations that I didn't get to have… that I might never get to have. It was loaded over with imagined exchanges with my wife. Because I couldn't ask her those questions or tell her those things in real life, I had to put them there. In real life I felt I had to devote myself to getting the revenge I wanted. That was important to me. But you know something? The day I finished my story… the day I wrote that they lived happily every after? That was the first night I was able to sleep since catching her with him."

"So you're having regrets?"

"Not at all. Not at all."

"Interesting. But tell me, which of these stories would someone who hasn't had a cheating spouse in their past prefer? Because I found your story… well, I didn't like it much."

"It depends on the person, I guess. I imagine most people would want the revenge story because it closely fits that eternal conflict-triumph-resolution pattern of storytelling."

"Huh. You've been thinking a lot about this."

"I guess I have. I didn't even know it."

"Okay, wait. What about those stories online where the idea of a woman lording her affairs over her husband is clearly meant to be a turn-on?"

"I have no idea. I suppose that's just a whole other thing." I laughed. "I hope it is."

"Well, thanks for the update, Mark. What are you up to now?"

"The divorce papers were served today, so I'll probably turn off my phone and watch TV."

"Ah, the life of the bachelor."

"There it is."

"So you're still okay coming back to work next week?"

"I think I am, yeah. My lawyer says I might as well."

"Good. And Mark?"

"Yeah?"

"About what you said… about the stories and all. Did your story help you? Do you still believe in love?"

I looked out the window of my new apartment, and from where I stood I imagined that I could see an entire world of people ready to do good things for one another. "You know," I said, "I really do."

-----------------------------

Tribute Tales: In Memoriam by SirThopas
http://www.web.archive.org/web/20170225165022/www.literotica.com/s/tribute-tales-in-memoriam

Chapter 1 - Tribute Tales: In Memoriam
My tribute to a common LW format.

I really believed, for a while, that the death of my wife was the end of my story.

It's impossible to define that kind of pain for someone who hasn't experienced it firsthand. But if you had asked me, that cold day in February when she was laid to rest, if it was possible for a person to hurt any more than I did right then, I would have confidently told you 'no.'

And I would have been wrong.

Andrea was my wife, and remains the one love of my life. And, as spouses go, she was beyond incredible. Every day I got to spend with her was a gift that I wish I could go back and reopen. It wouldn't matter which one; they were all the best. We'd had nine ambrosial years together, and were proud parents of an eight year old son, when I left for a week's worth of training in St. Louis and lost her forever. The happiest nine years of my life, bar none.

The trip was uneventful, save for one thing: I had dropped my cell phone in the toilet while shaving. I fished it out, cursing, but I had forever ended its usefulness. This was two days before I was due back home. No problem. I figured I'd get a new one; I even had my eye on a Blackberry. Using the hotel phone, I tried calling the house to let Andrea know that my cell was no longer among the living. Nobody answered. I just left a message.

Fifty-three hours later, I was on my way home. Not even the stale, artificial airplane air, or the cramped conditions, could bring me down. I was like a puppy coming home after a week at a kennel. I only knew four words: excited to get home.

I remember being struck by the sunken weariness of John and Amy's faces when I saw them waiting in the terminal. John and Amy, my friends and in-laws, waiting to pick me up. Not my wife and son.

Alarm bells.

Hard truths. Tears.

She wasn't there because she wasn't there.

She'd been gone for two days. In fact she was in an ambulance, dead, while I was trying to call and tell her about my cell phone. Somehow, that thought buried me in guilt. She was so freshly removed from this world, a catastrophic and purposeless ending, and I was wrapped up in the unimportant.

The way I understand it, she was finishing her shower and slipped getting out of the tub. It's an insignificant moment that most people probably face at some point in their life. But instead of stumbling and hurting her knees, or catching herself at the last minute, or even thumping her forehead on the ground and having an embarassing bruise, my wife had fallen and struck her temple hard against the corner of the vanity top. Our son William heard the noise from the fall, but didn't think anything of it. It wasn't until an hour had passed and his mother was still in the shower that he got worried. When she wouldn't respond to his hammering on the door, he called his Aunt Amy. By the time John had broken down the door she was dead.

William, being eight, took it hard. That's an understatement, but the language can't be bent or twisted hard enough to convey the pure anguish a child is capable of experiencing. It was something heavier and more tragic than time itself. But the truth is I wasn't far behind. I was almost totally incapable of being there for him. John and Amy could see this, I suppose, and they stepped in to help us both. William was grateful, I was horrified.

My problem, and his salvation, stemmed from the fact that Andrea was a twin. Her sister, Amy, looked exactly like her. She lived about a block and a half down the street with her husband, the aforementioned John. They'd celebrated their eleventh anniversary the August prior. Small detail, but as it turned out very important. Andrea and Amy were so completely exact that even I had a hard time differentiating between them in conversation. After almost a decade, I still struggled to tell the difference.

It was there, however minute, in the form of a small but thick scar… maybe half the size of a thumb… that was high up on Amy's stomach. It could really only be seen when she wore a bikini. Oh, I'm sure one could see it when she wore less than that, but who would be scar hunting under those circumstances?

My little William latched onto Amy with a hollow-eyed desperation after his mother passed. She looked and talked just like her, she had the same kind eyes and the same bright smile, so why not? When he was with her was the only time he had any life in him. She let him keep some small amount of his former life, and he loved her for it.

I, on the other hand, couldn't stand to be near her. My reasons, obviously, were the same as his. She was a living, breathing reminder of my wife. Every minute with her was a reminder of what I had lost. But unlike William, who only sought to have his mother's gaze and attention back on him for a few short moments, I was missing something Amy couldn't give. When she was around, it was like my wife was in the room, but eventually I would have to watch her go back to another man… her man… at the end of each visit.

At first John would come over with her each time she visited, but Amy seemed frustrated by his presence. She paid him little attention and gently pushed away whenever he tried to touch or hug her. All of her energy was spent on us, William and me. All of Andrea's chores, she took care of. When the conversation went morosely silent, she perked it back up. When William cried, she held him. She reached for me, once, when my own tears would not be held back, but I jerked away. I couldn't deal with that.

I think John was a little uncomfortable with her stepping in so fully to Andrea's shoes, and she knew it was hard on me for them to watch them be affectionate with each other. Mostly, they didn't interact much while they were around us. And he always looked so beaten down and drained. He would draw inward and fall silent for long periods of time. I did wonder if maybe he and Amy were fighting about what she was doing. I remember one night he left for home, while she stayed to help put William to bed, and he swung in for a brief kiss before he headed out. She didn't fight it, but she put her hands up to his chest and stepped quickly away afterwards. She glanced over at me, anxiety on her face. He saw that, his face darkened, and he left quickly. I pretended I hadn't seen anything, but I doubt I did a very good job of acting casual. She watched me for a few moments, an unreadable expression on her face, and then went off to find William.

John stopped coming over with her, after that. I never asked about it.

She tried to help us, to find a way to be a part of our healing. She gave of herself completely, spending far more time at our house than I thought was fair to herself or to John. She wanted to do whatever she could. I saw that. I just couldn't accept it. She would come to the house and help with housework, or spend time with William, and even try to sit across from me at meals and talk about my day. Worse, I could clearly see affection in her eyes when she looked at me, affection greater than that of a concerned sister-in-law. Sometimes, I even imagined she was falling in love with me.

It was killing me. Finally, I started avoiding the house when she was there. This strategy only worked for a few days before she confronted me on it.

I had stayed out late Wednesday, hoping to avoid talking to her. I'd called and left a message that I would be working late again and, as was becoming my new custom, I drove to Borders and grabbed a random book off a random shelf. When the store closed, I went for a walk by moonlight until I thought it was late enough for her to have gone. But when I drove by the house at 11:30 her car was still there. Sucking it up, I pulled my van into the garage and headed for the kitchen.

She was sitting at the table, looking for all the world like Andrea. A sad, weary expression drew lines on her forehead, but her gaze was locked on me and full of hurt. More hurt than I would have expected, actually. It took me by surprise. "Chris," she said softly, "I know what you're doing. Please don't hide from me like this."

Busted.

I sighed, and eased myself into the seat opposite her. "Sorry, Amy. I know I'm pushing you away, and I know it's not fair. Andrea was your loss as much as it was mine." I saw her wince at the name, and drop her gaze. We were carrying Andrea around like some heavy ghost we must all share in keeping in this world. "But I just can't do this. I can't see you every day. My whole life is torn open. The life I wanted to have, that I thought lay ahead of me, is over and gone. No growing old with my wife, no sharing the adventures of the next forty years. There's not a single moment left to be shared with my soul mate. I can't be forced to see her face… hear her voice… two, three times a week. I can't be with her and still learn to be apart from her. I need to find a way to live without her. I haven't been able to find that yet, because as long as you're here she is too."

Tears had begun trickling down Amy's face as I started talking, and by the time I finished she was sobbing openly. I thought it was strange that she wouldn't look at me as she cried, but who knows what goes on in a woman's mind.

"I'm so sorry, Chris," she said. "Oh, God, I'm sorry."

"None of this is your fault. Please don't think that I could ever think or feel anything negative about you. You and John are good friends. I've been leaning on you both, and you've never complained. You've given William and me so much, and that's what makes this so hard. God knows I could use good friends right now."

This only seemed to make her break down more. "Please wait," she said. "I have to tell you something."

"Amy," I held up my hands, "this is hard for me so please just let me finish. You're right; I can't keep sneaking around hiding from you. But I also can't be around you… not yet, not now. The trouble is, William needs you so badly. He was always much closer to his mother than he was to me, and he's really latched on to you. Being with you is the only time I see him happy, anymore. It makes me jealous, to tell you the truth."

This produced another round of tears.

I bit my lip. "I think I have to get away. I have to leave." I held my hands up again as her eyes went wide. "For a while, not forever. I'm afraid if I stay here, I'll never heal. But I won't take William away from the people he needs most, nor will I take him from his friends. I was hoping… " I took a moment to wipe the moisture from my eyes. This was harder than I'd expected it to be. "… I was hoping that you and John would consider… looking after my son. While I'm gone." There. I'd said it. And without breaking down.

I couldn't say the same for Amy. "No, Chris! You can't go! You don't understand." Tears poured from her face.

"If you can't do this, then I do understand, actually. But with or without William, I am leaving this place. Not forever. Just until I can… well, just until."

Amy closed her eyes tight. For a moment neither of us spoke. Finally she said, "Ok. I'll do it. I can't lose William. Not him, too." When her eyes opened again, there was resignation in them.

I felt pity for her, for the sorrow for guilt she obviously felt, and tried to smile and console her. "In a way, if this had to happen, I am so grateful that my son has you to take care of him. His whole world has been shattered, more than yours and more than mine. I hate to think how this would have gone without you here to help. That's why I need you now. My reserves are burned up. I don't have anything left to give. The last thing William needs is to have his world even more shook up by the selfish desires of his one remaining parent. He needs someone in this world who is looking out for him, not just themselves. He needs safety and consistency and calm. Please. Be that for him."

Her shoulders sagged as if in defeat, but she nodded her head. "I will," she whispered. Then, suddenly, she sat up straight and squinted at me. "But you have to promise to take better care of yourself. I see what's happening to you, maybe better than you do. I have counted the empty bottles in the trash can. I have seen the cupboards stay bare even as your body shrinks. You can't let yourself give up, Chris. For me, please, you can't."

I didn't say anything. I couldn't. But I nodded.

"I mean that," she continued, unplacated. "You have no idea how much it's hurting me to see you suffer like this. If you have to leave for a while to find your way through this, I understand," she had that hurt look on her face as she said that, and I suspected she didn't actually understand at all, "but you have to promise to look after yourself and you have to promise to come back to me… to us."

I was a little taken aback by her use of the word 'me,' and I must have looked at her funny because she blushed. I was getting more and more uncertain of just what her feelings towards me were, and I was very uncomfortable. I figured getting out soon was the best thing for all of us.

It was just four weeks later that I was boarding my plane. William had already moved in with his aunt and uncle… he was happy about it. I had only seen Amy a few times after our talk. She was obviously the one avoiding me, now, and I thought that she must be doing that for my sake. I appreciated it. But I still didn't understand the look in her eye, the deep watery sadness, as the three of them saw me off at the airport. I didn't understand the way she cried and clung when she hugged me goodbye. And I didn't understand why John still looked so tired and depressed… much as he had the day he told me that Andrea had died.

And I wouldn't understand it for two years.

It was immediately clear to me, upon relocating, that I'd made the right choice. Without having Amy bring Andrea's face over every other day, I was finally able to begin healing. I'd taken a pretty sizable pay cut in the move, but I was living a spartan lifestyle and sending all my additional money home to Amy and John. I talked to William on the phone every week, although after the novelty wore off and he developed new habits and routines he was no more interested in our little talks than any kid his age would be. I always came back for major holidays and birthdays, and I took William on a week long camping trip every summer. By the end of the first year I was together enough to go on my first date.

It was pretty nondescript, but it felt good. A few months after that I met Karen through work, and soon we were sharing evenings and intimacies. It may not have had the intensity that I felt with Andrea, but I was acutely aware that this was someone I could love. My visions of the last years of my life were no longer nightmares, lonely and empty. This was a beautiful woman who cared for me, who I was building new memories with. After six months I was feeling so good about her that I decided to take her to meet the family.

I talked to John about coming out to see them, and he seemed nervous about it. I couldn't understand why… William and I had talked about her quite a bit, and he seemed pretty unphased by the idea of his dad dating. I wasn't sure what the future held, but I knew that Karen was becoming a part of who I was and it was important to me to involve her in the more important aspects of my life. Specifically, my son and the people I considered to be my family. I told John so, but he only seemed to get more uncomfortable.

"I just don't know if it's a good idea, Chris. William…"

"William is not the problem here, and you know that. So just come out and tell me what is."

He was quiet for a moment. "Alright. I think it will upset Amy."

I was stunned. Upset Amy? Why? Were my fears, in the weeks after Andrea's death, justified? Was Amy developing feelings for me? It always seemed to make her sad somehow when I came to visit, but I thought that maybe I had the same effect on her that she had on me: we reminded each other that someone in the room was missing. Someone who had been important to us.

"You're kidding," I said, dumbfounded. "Why would Amy be upset? She suddenly doesn't want me to move on with my life? Tell me what's going on, John."

He sighed. "I don't know. Maybe you moving on is the last step towards Andrea being really gone. In effect, you're letting Andrea go once and for all. You're divorcing her. You can see how that might upset her, right?"

I grunted. "I think maybe it's time to close that coffin. She can't use my pain to protect herself from the truth. If I can live with my wife's death, then she can learn to live with her sister's. Besides, what's the alternative? What if I marry this girl? Do I just not get invited to your house anymore? Am I suddenly not welcome this Christmas because I fell in love again?"

"I honestly don't know," he said.

Shocked doesn't begin to describe it. He doesn't know? Now I was mad, and hurt. Why would these people who mean so much to me not want me to be happy?

"Fuck, John! Are you kidding me?! I guess I'd better start looking for a bigger place, then, because if I'm not welcome at your house then my son sure as hell isn't going to be staying there anymore. It's probably past due anyway. He needs to be with his father."

John was silent for a moment. "Hold on," he said.

He must have put his hand over the receiver, because I could hear him talking in hushed tones. I could hear Amy's voice, too. They almost seemed to be arguing, but I couldn't make out any words.

John came back on. "Hey, uh, Chris? I'm sorry, man. I jumped the gun a little bit. I guess emotions are still riding pretty high for… for all of us, you know? You're right; we should be supporting you on this. It's just… hard. You should come out."

"No, I think maybe I shouldn't. I don't want to go upsetting anybody."

"Please. I insist. We insist."

So I went.

Holy crap, what a mistake that was.

We were there for three days. The first day, Amy was glaring daggers at Karen the whole time. John pretended not to notice, but he sulked a lot. She snubbed her, asked her inappropriately pointed questions, and threw veiled critiques at her every chance she got. I asked John to get her to cool it, but he just looked at me like it was my fault. I think he did try, but he was no more able to contain her than I was. When I confronted her about it that night, while Karen was waiting in the car, she lashed out at me, too.

"What the fuck is your problem, Amy? I've never seen you like this!"

"I don't know what you mean," she folded her arms and gave me a challenging look.

"Bullshit. What was all that crap about taking care of myself, living my life? Did you mean any of that? Here I meet someone I care deeply for, someone I might be falling in love with, and all you can do is attack her! Make her feel unwelcome! Jesus, she's probably crying right now, I'm sure she'll never want to come back here again, and I don't even know what I can do about it."

Amy looked like I'd slapped her. "I… I didn't mean…"

"The hell you didn't. I knew this was a mistake. I just didn't realize how big… I would never have dreamed you could be so hateful. I'm sorry that you're so suddenly bothered by my happiness that you can't even find it in yourself to be polite to a stranger. I thought you'd be… " I trailed off, biting the inside of my cheek and taking deep breaths to calm down.

Amy bit her lip, a tear rolling down her cheek. "You don't understand, Chris."

"Then tell me!" I shouted. "If you have something to say to me, just fucking say it. What is it you keep avoiding? You want to tell me that you hate me? That you love me? What… " I trailed off. She had given a little shake of her head at the word 'hate,' but when I said 'you love me' her face had just collapsed. She was sobbing openly, moving backwards as if to get away from me. She stumbled and fell to her knees, and made no attempt to get up.

"Oh my god," I muttered, "you're in love with me."

She cried harder at that. John materialized from somewhere, looking furious, and crouched down next to her. She leaned in to him, and he held her as she cried.

"I didn't know," I said.

"You should go," he looked very tired.

"John, I…"

"Just leave."

So I did.

The next day I came over only to say goodbye to William. He was sorry to see me leave early, but not real sorry. Kids. Amy was nowhere to be seen. John was curt and polite. Almost apologetic, but without warmth.

After that, my relationship with Karen never had a chance. Learning about Amy's feelings had thrown me into a spiral of confusion, and being treated so coldly by the people I loved had left her feeling slighted and unwelcome in my life.

It took me three months of obsessing over this new problem before I finally found the courage to meet it head on. I offer no excuses for this.

I booked a flight back home, took two days off work so I would have a four day weekend, and decided to surprise my in-laws and have this out with them. One way or another, this had to be resolved because it was a very real threat to my friendship with them and my relationship with my son. Ugly though it may get, I had to clear the air. I squared my shoulders, did pushups with my mind, and readied for launch.

William answered the door, wearing a swimsuit and dripping water on the floor of the entryway.

"Dad!" He shouted, jumping in to hug me and drenching my shirt.

"Hey, buddy," I laughed. "Where'd all the water come from?"

"We got a pool! It's above ground, but it's big and it's way fun and Uncle John can stay underwater a long time! I only heard the doorbell cos I came in to get my watch so I can time him."

"Wow," I raised my eyebrows. "I wish I'd known. I woulda brought a suit! Are Uncle John and Aunt Amy out back, then?"

He gave me a look I could only describe as suspicious. "Why are you here?"

I was a little hurt, but I put a smile on for him. "I missed you."

He remained aloof. "I like it here."

I wasn't sure what to say, so I just said, "That's good. Now can we go say hello to Uncle John and Aunt Amy?"

When we came out the patio door, John was in the pool and Amy was standing near the edge talking to him. I was struck, as always, how like Andrea she looked. She even had on a modest red bikini that looked just like one Andrea used to have.

"Mom!" William called, running to Amy. I frowned; I didn't like him calling her that, no matter how traumatic Andrea's death had been for him.

She turned, smiling, towards his voice and froze. She saw me and put her hand to her mouth in shock.

I stared at her. Suddenly I couldn't breathe. I put my hand up to my heart. My mouth opened and closed.

She grabbed a towel off a nearby chair, but it was past too late. I'd already seen the truth.

There was no scar on her stomach.

Heaven knows what made me look for it at all. Maybe it was a reminder that this was Amy, so that I could get past the feeling of looking at my dead wife. Or maybe I was just taking in her figure the way a red blooded male does. I don't know. What I did know, suddenly and with certainty, was that the woman standing before me was Andrea.

Andrea, who was not dead. Andrea, who had let her sister take the fall.

I fell.

"Chris!" she cried, rushing towards me.

My chest was tight. I couldn't focus on anything. Even after I landed, hard, on my right arm I still had a sensation of falling.

Andrea reached out to me and I pushed her away. I heard her shouting at John, saying something about a heart attack. He was running towards the house. William was standing where I'd left him, eyes wide as saucers, mouth hanging open.

"No," I heard myself say. "Notanattack. Not anattack. Not an attack." I took deep breaths, closed my eyes, and tried to focus my thoughts. Finally, I started to gain some control. "I think I'm in shock," I told the thing that wasn't Amy. "Just leave me alone for a few minutes."

"Chris," she put her hand on my shoulder, eyes all weary compassion.

"GO!" I shouted. She jumped, and pulled away from me. John pulled her up and led her and William into the house.

I sat there for a long time, not knowing what to do. I just stared at the swimming pool, and experienced a true absence of thought. It was cathartic, so I let it be.

Some time later… maybe a half hour or more… John came out. He was dressed now, and he looked scared.

"How are you doing?" he asked cautiously.

I looked up at him without feeling. This man was not my friend. He was a thief. "Amy's dead," I said flatly.

He winced. "Yes."

"She was at my house, in my shower. Andrea was… with you?"

He looked down at the ground.

"Why?"

He didn't answer at first, just studied the ground in front of him. "I think Amy should be the one to explain it to you."

"Andrea. Amy's dead."

"She goes by Amy now." He raised his eyes to mine, and there was defiance in them. And a fear. What was he thinking? That I was going to take his family the way he took mine?

From the doorway, Andrea's voice called out. "John, let me talk to him. There's no reason for fear."

He kept his eyes locked on me. "You'd better not try to hurt her."

"Don't worry," I kept my voice neutral, "I'll come for you first."

He clenched his jaw, fingers moving apprehensively, and then turned and stormed into the house. He reached out to hug Andrea on his way by, a territorial move, but she brushed by him with an apology.

Andrea was dressed now, too. She had on khaki capris and a soft blue tank top. She was beautifully tanned from the summer, and had the first hints of new lines in the corners of her eyes. She was thirty-six now, I realized. Not dead, not gone, but not really the same person I'd mourned and missed. Two years of living behind her. Two years in her new life, of which I was a bit player.

"Why?" I said, and that one word was like a cork on a bottle of champagne. It popped out and unleashed everything. Suddenly I couldn't stop crying. "Why?!" I repeated.

Andrea was crying, too. "I'm so sorry… " she started.

"WHY?!"

She sat down and put her hands over her face. "I didn't know what else to do. When William called we didn't even begin to think it would be as bad as it was, so we didn't tell him… tell him the truth. When we found Amy we went into panic mode, and by the time we could even begin to think about how to handle the situation it was too late. The lie was bigger than the truth. I couldn't just tell the hospital and the police and William that we'd… about who had died. And it was just so chaotic. I couldn't stop crying long enough to say much of anything, so I kept telling myself I'd figure out a plan as soon as I could calm down. I tried to call you, to tell you Amy had died. I thought maybe if I did that, make that commitment to truth, then I could find a way to explain the rest of it by the time you got home. But I couldn't get ahold of you, and I kept digging myself in deeper with every step. I had to call my mom, I had to talk to you, I had to console William. And John… " she flinched at the anger that lit up my face, "… I just had no time to think and every added moment compounded it until I felt trapped. Please believe me when I say that watching you suffer and not knowing how to reach out to you or help you was worse than losing my sister could ever be. It killed me to watch your grief. But I knew that if I told you the truth it might be worse. I wanted to protect you from what you're going through right now. You thought I was dead, that damage was already done and that pain was already upon you. Tell you the truth would only add new pain, and I couldn't do that. I watched you waste away, and knew that I couldn't hurt you any more. I just couldn't."

"So you left me on my own."

"I came over as often as…"

"You left me alone. And when I started to get close to someone else you did everything you could to drive them away."

She shrugged, head hung low.

"Meanwhile, you've been living it up here with your new husband and our son. Is that the deal? You get to play wife to another man, and you get the added bonus of keeping William with you, while I live and die alone? Was that your plan?"

"No…"

"When did you tell William?"

She started crying again. "It's not like you think…"

"When?"

"He figured it out a few months ago. He was looking through a photo album and saw a picture of… of Amy… in a swimsuit. I think he'd been too young to really pay any mind to the scar, when she… when she was with us. But he realized the truth almost as quickly as you."

"Pretty fucking smart for a ten year old. How'd you get him to keep quiet?"

She shrugged again, looking away and wiping tears from her eyes. She wasn't going to answer.

I sighed. "How long were you cheating on me, Andrea?"

This started another round of sobbing. I waited. I felt no sympathy. "You have to understand," she said at last, "that until I met you I had never really experienced individuality. Amy and I seemed to share every like and dislike, every urge. When one of us liked a boy, the other one would fall for him too. It created problems for us. In high school we developed a system, and after that we were always able to handle it amicably. Until she met John, and fell in love."

"And you did, too."

She nodded. "We had our system. Rules, I guess. She found him, so I had no claim. However, after about seven months of heartbreak I confronted her. I couldn't deal with it, the jealousy and the hurt. I couldn't live with it every day of my life. I couldn't watch my sister, who had my face, look so happy with the man that I loved. So we talked it over, with John, and in the end they offered to let me switch places with Amy for one week. We all had to deal with some jealousy issues and uncomfortable talks at first, but I was just so grateful to have at least some small portion of time with this man who I… who I loved." She wouldn't look me in the eye, now, as she continued her bizarre tale. "It happened again four months later, and after that it got… easier."

I closed my eyes and shook my head.

She continued. "It was right after their wedding that I met you, and that changed everything. You see, you are the only man I have ever desired that my sister has not. You are the one thing I had that made me different from her. You were such a gift. And I loved it, and I loved you. For the next five years I was yours and yours alone."

I could see where this was going. "But you loved him more."

"No. Not more. But I still loved him. And I missed… being with him. I was very confused, and… " she blushed, but didn't elaborate. "So when your work started to take you out of town more and more I went and talked to John and Amy. And they agreed to… share with me, again." She held up her hand defensively. "But only when you were out of town. Never when you were here."

"Of course not," I snapped. "Your sister didn't want to have to sleep with me, just so you could get your fix."

She looked back at the ground. "I would never have chosen a day with John over a day with you. I never even considered being with him when you were in town. Amy would always stay at our house, so William wouldn't know what… what his mother was doing." She sniffled.

"Well, I'm glad you were able to find ways to avoid feeling guilty."

She sighed. "I always felt guilty."

"Then why keep going? Was he that much better?"

"No."

"Did you love him that much more?"

"I said no! I loved you! You, far more than him. You're still the love of my life. He knows that. It scares him." She gave me an oddly hopeful look. Ridiculous.

"How do you reconcile that love with even one of the things you've put me through, Andrea? How do you justify ANY of what you've done to me, if you love me? Hell, how could you justify doing this to someone you hated?!?"

"I can't. But… Chris, if you… I… I would come back to you in a heartbeat. I… I'd rather be with you. I've missed you so much. I just felt so trapped."

Before today, if you had asked me what I was willing to suffer or endure to get my dead wife back, I would have said anything. Now, I knew that wasn't true. I wouldn't endure this. I looked at her, and I knew I was doomed to a lifetime of looking back at this moment, and all the moments that came before it, with a brutal clarity. I stood up.

"I'm sorry," I said.

"Chris… " new tears sprung to her swollen face. "Please. I've dreamt for so long of being able to tell you the truth, of finding some way to come back to you. Please! Now we can be together, again! I know you've missed me."

I looked down at her, then around at the middle class domesticity of her little world. I had to admit, I had missed her.

And then I knew what it would take for me to take her back.

"Okay," I said flatly. "Kill John."

I've never seen fear spread so clearly across a person's face. "What did you say?" she asked.

"Kill John," I repeated. "You cheated on me. You betrayed me. You lied to me. You let me believe you were dead, and for what? To avoid having to own up to your own failure as a wife and a mother. Okay. What John did to me was just as bad. He fucked my wife, for years, behind my back. And when his wife died he said nothing. He let me believe it was my loss, not his. To protect his little world he destroyed mine. And he's been living my life, with my wife and my son, creating memories with them that I am not a part of, for two years. I don't know if I have it in me to hate you, but I sure as hell hate him. If I mean so much to you, if you want me back so badly, that you can murder your lover, I honestly and truly will be willing to try and take you back. To try and rebuild what we had."

"But… why?" she was horrified, her eyes darting like an animal looking for escape.

"Because you killed me. And he stood at your side and claimed all the benefits of that. So if you kill him, then and only then will I know that I mean at least as much to you as he does."

"That's not…"

"I'm not debating it, Andrea. And I'm not going to compromise. If John is dead, there is a future for us. If he is alive, there isn't. Anyway," I spat on the ground, "the son of a bitch should really be with his wife, don't you think?"

"You're scaring me, Chris. This isn't funny."

"I'm not joking. You don't have to do it. You can just keep living here with him. Either way, I'm taking William."

"What?!" She leapt to her feet. "You wouldn't!"

I stared at her, genuinely surprised. "Of course I'm taking him," I stated. "And there's not really anything you can do about it, AMY," I emphasized the name. "I'm his sole surviving parent unless you want to reveal to the world who you really are. And while I don't claim to know much about legalities, I imagine that doing so would get you in quite a bit of trouble. Stealing a dead woman's identity for the last two years? Forging documents, deceiving officials? How much of Andrea's life insurance money went to you and John? How much of it did you spend? Not to mention how your mother and Andrea's and Amy's friends and colleagues might take the news. Hell, it's quite a story. Crazy enough for major news agencies to pick up. And it certainly wouldn't get you custody, would it?"

She was sobbing now. "I can't believe you would do this. I don't know you anymore!"

"Sure you do. We've changed in the last two years, sure, but not that much. I'm not some mysterious monster. I'm the same man who loves you so completely that I would even forgive you for this. If you end John's life, and get away with it, then we can be together again. And you'll see that I'm still the man you loved. And I will even learn to trust you again, in time. But we cannot rebuild anything, you and I, while he's still here. I'm not telling you to do this because I want to hurt you. I'm not doing this to punish you. I'm only doing it because it's the way things have to be. And I'm not taking William to push you into it, I'm taking him because he's my son and I will not leave him here to be raised by my enemy. Not anymore." I turned and walked towards the house.

"Please don't do this to me," she sobbed. "I'd rather die."

I could see John watching us through the glass doors, no doubt wondering what we were saying. "You know I've seen that one already," I told her over my shoulder. "I didn't really like it the first time."

Chapter 2 - Tribute Tales: O Tempora, O Mores
Sequel to "In Memoriam".

Andrea sat down at the clay-red table, opposite the thing that was her husband and was not her husband, and tried not to look at It or the empty chair to Its right. She didn't want to see either of these things. She knew that they defined her, and she knew that they were dangerous.

Instead, to keep from obsessing over the unseen, she focused her senses on minutia. The combined smell of meat and vegetables. A faint dark spot on the tablecloth where something was spilled. The prism of colors that could be found in the crystal chandelier overhead. The ticking of the clock that she and her sister had picked out years ago, when Amy and John had first moved into this house.

No. That was wrong. "I was alone," she chided herself. "When I bought it I was alone. I am Amy. I am my dead sister."

She shook her head, scattering these thoughts like feeding insects and drawing concerned glances from across the table. She refocused her attentions on the unimportant. This technique had protected her for weeks. Why was it failing her now?

Concentrate.

The clink of the silverware as she cut her food. The coolness of it in her hand. The muscle, or perhaps tendon, in her left forearm that was twitching quietly. She'd first noticed it two days after William had been taken away. Sometimes it would stop for a few seconds, as though recovering, but mostly it just patiently continued its simple beat. For twenty-seven days now it had pulsed, intermittently, without sensation.

Like a beacon.

Like a reminder.

Andrea finally looked up at the thing across the table from her. It was watching her with sad, sunken eyes. She felt neither pity nor empathy for it, but studied it carefully. It had been sleeping poorly lately, tossing and turning deep into the night and often waking early the next morning. It had taken to drinking coffee in the evening and spending most of the night watching TV or reading books. Still, It must be sleeping sometime. Maybe at work, or when it was supposed to be at the gym. Regardless, It rarely slept at home.

And It was wise to stay awake.

It saw that It had her attention, and stopped eating. "We can't go on like this," It said. "There's got to be something we can do. I know there is. If you would just tell me what he said…"

"I did tell you, John," she thought her own voice sounded dry, husked of all tone. Aged and timeless. "He didn't say anything."

It sighed, and leaned back away from Its food, looking up at the ceiling. "Goddamn it, Andrea," It said without conviction, "you've got to let me help you."

"Amy." She raised one eyebrow challengingly, "You're supposed to call me Amy."

Silence. "Please. Amy. I know he said something, a… a threat, or some kind of condition, or something. You were crying so hard, I couldn't understand what you said. But I know you tried to tell me then. What changed? Why have you decided to keep this from me? Why am I not allowed to help?"

She almost laughed at that. "He didn't say anything."

It put Its elbows up on the table and buried a sagging face in two large hands. It still wore a wedding ring on the left index finger, like a bad practical joke that everyone has grown tired of but the idiot keeps on going. Andrea and Amy had taken the matching ring off weeks ago. There had been some heated discussion at first, but now both agreed that it was no longer appropriate.

It spoke: "Are… are you planning on going back to him? Is that it? Are you just buying time until you can leave? I… I understand, if… " A sob. Jesus. It was crying.

"He wouldn't take me back, or I'd already be gone." Her eyes unwillingly flickered to the empty seat. To William's absent smile.

Her dear William. Could she live without watching him grow into a young man? Would he care about her at all, as years progressed and he became a man? Surely his understanding of what had happened, what she had done, would change as he grew accustomed to life with his father. Or, as he grew old enough to imagine himself in his father's place. What would he have done? How would he have felt? He would ask those questions. And she would be more easily judged as a memory, as something no longer in his life, than if she were there with him, caring and loving.

She had already prepared to face the pain, as most mothers do, of knowing that the little boy clings to mother while the young man seeks out the father. But this was so much more than that, to know that your child is growing up without you in his life. To know that every second away from you is eroding your importance to him.

And Chris… how long would it take before he would meet someone new? The last one, he'd considered marrying. Watching him parade her around, seeing the light in his eyes when he turned them on her, had been more than she could stomach. Where was Chris right now? The grocery store, passing by hungry single women as he shopped? At work, building the earliest emotional bridges with a female coworker through idle conversation? Coming home, introducing William to the woman he met last week? The woman who will be spending the night sometime very soon?

If it took Andrea six months to accomplish her task, would it already be too late?

Andrea realized that the thing across the table from her was speaking, but she didn't care, so Amy excused the two of them hastily and Andrea ran them up to the bedroom and locked the door.

Staggering to the vanity mirror, she lifted her shirt and touched the tender wound high on her stomach, near the underside of her right breast. The gauze was pink, soaked through with blood. The tape clung tenaciously to her skin, though it too was shaded red. Pulling back the bandage, she examined the partially scabbed injury. Her fingers pulled and pushed at it with a mortician's indifference, testing the size, the shape. Hunting for any sign of infection.

She looked up into the mirror, and there was Amy smiling back at her.

"It looks good," the smiling face said. "You're really doing a good job with it."

"Thank you," Andrea replied. "Do you think we'll be ready soon?"

"Patience, Sis. It still has to have time to scar over."

"I know," Andrea sighed. "I just miss them so much. I can't stand the waiting."

Amy gave her a stern look. "You have to. Otherwise how am I going to help you? Besides, you've been away from Chris for a long time, and William's only been gone a month. You can manage a little longer."

"But It's getting more and more upset. There's no way It's going to stick around for another four months! Not the way things are going. If It leaves, then what do we do?"

"It has a name, you know."

"Then you say it," Andrea snapped bitterly. "You say it, and see if that helps you. See what difference it makes."

Amy bit her lower lip, deep in thought. "You're going to have to placate John a little. It's the only way."

Andrea wrinkled her forehead. "Placate?"

"Calm him, if you'd prefer. Make him think that you're on his side, that everything is going to be okay if he just hangs in there."

"How do I do that?"

"He's a man. Sex usually works. Act like you're trying to communicate with him, from time to time. And let him hold you at night."

Andrea touched the crusted edge of her injured skin. "It would… see…"

"He doesn't have to. Tell him you're dealing with grief issues, and it upsets you to see the part of your body that marked you as different from me. Tell him you're trying, and you want to give yourself to him, but the shirt has to stay on. You can even go in to see a counselor. That might be good anyway."

"How would that be good?"

"Well obviously you can talk to this counselor about the loss of your dead sister, how you miss seeing your sister's only child, and… more importantly… how your husband seems to be withdrawing from you. It will all help me a great deal, when this is all over." She got a sly grin on her face. "Or you could just use your mouth to help me in other ways, if you'd rather."

Andrea blanched. "I can't."

"It has to be done, either way."

Andrea slammed her open palms against the mirror, rocking it. "I won't do it! I've betrayed Chris enough. I won't do it."

"John will leave."

"Let It leave! I'll track It down wherever It goes."

"You're being stubborn, Sis." Amy's face took on a calm and patient smile. "And you're not thinking clearly. I said it has to be done. I didn't say you had to do it."

"I don't understand."

"Let me be the one. Let me do it."

"You… you would do that? For me?"

"It's not exactly torture, dear. He was my husband, you know. And even if I wasn't going to enjoy it, it will be far easier than what I'll be doing later."

Andrea nodded. "I know. So how… " she trailed off, not even sure what the question was.

"Simple," Amy smiled. "Let me run the show, and I'll go tend to John. In the morning, when he leaves for work, I'll come back and get you. Okay?"

"I… okay. Okay, you're right."

So Andrea watched as Amy retaped the wound, removed her clothes, and put on the snug white tank top that emphasized her cleavage so well. She didn't speak, just looked after her sister as Amy went into the bathroom, peed, and went about the process of shaving her legs and armpits. Andrea had left them untouched all this month, sending It a message of her unavailability. She couldn't help but make a disapproving noise, however, when her sister's shaving efforts moved up to her pubic area.

"Oh, hush," Amy giggled. "Some things feel better when it's bald, and he's so good at the one. Don't you think?"

"You mean You're going to let It…"

"Of course I am. You heard him at supper… he's not hurting because you haven't helped him, he's hurting because you won't let him help you. He wants to feel like he's a part of the healing process. To do that, I have to let him make love to me. In more ways than one. Anyway," she turned away, giving a dismissive wave over her shoulder, "why do you care? You won't be there."

Andrea fought the urge to snap at her sister. "It just feels wrong, that's all."

Amy wiped at herself with a warm washcloth and started the shower. Without saying a word, she stood and closed the curtain.

"Amy," Andrea raised her voice over the sound of the water.

"Just trust me, Sis," Amy called back. "You know I'm doing this for you."

"I'm just uncomfortable, that's all."

"Quit sulking and find something to distract you. I've got a long night ahead of me."

—

The only light in the hallway came from underneath the closed door near the entryway. The silent figure waited until it clicked off before passing through to the open threshold at the far end.

Chris closed the door to his bedroom, but stood and listened until he was sure William wasn't going to try to get up again. After a few silent minutes, he decided to take his chances and climbed into bed.

Will was a trooper, that's for sure. He was doing better all the time. When Chris had first brought him home, the boy had raged and grieved and hated his father with a child's ease and passion. That was all to be expected, and in truth Chris had wondered more than once whether he ought to just give it up and let William go back to live with his mom. But while time does not necessarily heal all wounds, it often leaves one with tough and hardened scar tissue. And scar tissue is not a punishment, but a gift. Between school and counseling, William was beginning to adapt.

The counseling had been a gamble. Chris had wondered what would happen if his son decided to simply spill the proverbial beans. He really knew very little about confidentiality or child abuse reporting laws, so he had no idea what the consequences would be if William walked into his therapist's office one day and explained the whole story about his parents and his aunt and uncle… or as much as he knew about it, anyway. Put simply, Chris wasn't sure how much danger he was inviting.

But it had been necessary for the boy's health, and from what he could tell William talked to the counselor about his mother as if she were dead. He claimed the role of child in grief counseling for the loss of a parent. And, really, that's what he was.

Maybe he was doing it to protect his mom, still guided by words she had said to keep him from revealing the truth to his father. Maybe he was burying his pain. Whatever the reason, talking about his mother as though she were dead… as though he had no choice but to move on in his life without her… seemed to be helping him survive the vast restructuring going on in his world. And more recently, it was helping him rebuild his relationship with his father.

There were still a lot of small acts of defiance… sneaking out late at night was the newest one, but even that one was a small blessing in its way. William had friends. He'd been so quiet and withdrawn when they'd first arrived, almost afraid to let people in. Chris had a very hard time being upset with his son for building a new social support system. Let the boy have a little escape. Pick your battles.

Let him learn to live without a mother.

After all, Andrea had made her decision. That was obvious. Or maybe in her mind there'd never been a decision to make. Chris didn't think often on the mandate he'd set before her that terrible day. It was… shaming isn't the word. It was simply one of those things that can be known, but not thought of directly. And after six months, it was obvious to him that Andrea had turned him down. She had decided to continue on without him, opting for a life with John. Away from her true husband, and away from her son. She probably figured it was better than becoming a murderer. She too had become one of those things that can be known but not thought of. He kept her out of his mind when he could. She had no place there anymore.

As he was drifting off to sleep, the phone rang. It startled him. He glanced at the clock. Past eleven. Who would be calling at this hour? Nobody he knew. Maybe a friend of William's, or a telemarketer.

He flicked on the light and sat up. Against his better judgement, he picked up the receiver. "Hello?" he feigned greater weariness than he felt. Let them think they'd woken a sleeping man. Let them feel a little guilt.

"Chris?" It was Andrea's voice.

He was wide awake now. "Andrea? It's late. Why are you calling."

"Listen, Chris. I'm sorry it took me so long. But, I finally did it. I really did it!" She sounded giddy, like someone on caffeine pills or a kid about to take their first rollercoaster ride.

"Did what? What did you do, Andrea?"

She was silent a moment, and when her voice returned she sounded confused. "You know. It."

Oh, he thought. Shit. Was she trying to be funny? "Andrea, knock it off. Let me talk to John."

She giggled, a high pitched sound that would stay with him a long time. For years. "It's okay. I did it. It's over. I'm coming to be with you. You and William."

"I don't understand."

"We'll be a family again!" Another giggle. Like a little girl, he realized. She was giggling like a little girl.

"Andrea, what the fuck are you talking about?" His mind was rolling now. Was this a prank? Her idea of a joke? Did she think it would punish him to think she had cracked?

"I… you know… I killed John." Chris realized his lungs felt shallow, ineffective. She sounded so earnest. He didn't speak, so she continued. "It's okay. We have a plan. I already called the cops, and they're on their way. Amy is going to take the fall for it. Isn't that incredible, Chris? She's is going to take the blame for me so we can be together!"

"Amy… Jesus, Andrea. Amy is dead. This isn't funny."

Andrea continued on, unphased. "She's going to tell them it was her that… you know, that did it. She's going to say that he wanted a divorce and she couldn't stand the thought of losing him, so she just snapped and… and killed him. Amy feels so bad for what happened. And she knows we've all been so miserable, you and I and John. William, too. So she's going to go to jail and I am going to come and be with you."

"Andrea, how is Amy going to go to fucking jail? She's fucking dead!" His voice raised an octave as he spoke. "Andrea, just stop. It's not funny. Put John on the phone."

Silence on the other end. Distantly, through the receiver, he thought he could hear sirens.

"Andrea?"

"It's okay, Chris. Everything will be okay. I have to go now. I have to help Amy."

"Andrea… " there were definitely sirens, now clearly audible. Chris was suddenly, unequivocally, positive that Andrea had meant every word she had said.

"I have to go Chris. I have to help Amy. Everything is going to be fine. I'll see you soon, honey!"

A click. A dial tone. Andrea was gone, again and forever.

He set the phone down.

The night crawled slowly along. Chris sat on the edge of his bed and did the only thing he could do: he let it pass. His eyes stared down into the floor, neither wide nor weary, fixed on some unremarkable point. He watched the shadows that fell across it, the ghost of a police siren in his head. He remained there all night, a lonely sentinel, weaponless and certain that whatever he was looking for was coming for him eventually.