Intuition

And then, in a stronger voice, "nothing like this has ever remotely happened before. NOTHING! It was Tom, he ... I don't know."

"Yeah, he's gorgeous," I said. "He's a sex god, and all the women want to fuck him, and you're no different. Never mind that you're married and he's my best friend, right?"

I could feel myself growing seriously angry again. I got up, grabbed my keys, and left the house. I drove around aimlessly, and didn't come back until late afternoon.

***************

It took most of a year to put it back together again. A year of uncomfortable silences, of explanations or apologies met by cold looks, of angry accusations met by lowered eyes.

I never moved out. I never hit her or threatened her; in fact, we never even really stopped having sex. But it was fucking—no more intimacy, no more loving looks and kisses, sharing words of love, feeling safe together.

And there was no magic about how it got better—it just took time. Laurie found a therapist, to work on her own issues. For a long time I had no interest in hearing what she was finding out, but after four months or so we talked about it a little. It seemed to be helping her, but I can't say that anything she told me was very useful.

Two weeks or so after I threw him out, Tom sent me a letter. I considered just throwing it in the trash, then finally tossed it into a desk drawer. I read it a few weeks later. He was sorry, he'd been selfish and irresponsible, he treated Laurie just like every other woman he was attracted to, it was all his fault, she was a good woman and she adored me. He hated the idea that he'd hurt our marriage. Blah blah blah—fuck him.

I handed the letter to Laurie and said, "maybe you want to read this," then walked out of the room. Later that day I saw the letter wadded up in the waste basket.

It sort of snuck up on me, actually—feeling better. I remember one day walking into the house at dinner time, fresh from a challenging day at work, and feeling eager to see Laurie and tell her about it. And I realized that the anger I'd been carrying around inside of me, the desperate rage and desire to hurt her back, had pretty much slipped away. Without my noticing it, the days of coming home every night with teeth clenched had just sort of stopped.

So we had some better weeks—and then as the holidays approached a pretty bad one. I was tense again all the time, stalking around with a dark look on my face and dark thoughts in my brain, and Laurie looked terrified.

After a few days of this, and a nearly-silent dinner, I said, "come sit in the living room with me."

She sat, looking wary, prepared for the worst, and I said, "I want you to listen and I don't want you to say anything. Especially I don't want you to laugh, or smile, or give me any goddam loving look, or tell me you 'understand'—got it?"

Laurie nodded. She looked like she was barely breathing.

After a long minute I said, "it turned me on. That day—when I saw you. I had a hard-on that nearly ripped the front of my pants."

I was watching her; she sat very still. This was the first time we had talked about it—about me seeing them.

"I hated what I saw, I mean I fucking HATED it. I wanted to kill the both of you, beat you or strangle you to death. I was so hurt, so horrified.

"I have thought about this a thousand times since then—a million times. You have the most beautiful body I've ever seen, and there you were, sucking him, so into it, getting so much pleasure from giving him pleasure.

"It isn't—let me make this absolutely fucking clear!—it isn't that it turns me on, thinking of you with other men. It was you. Seeing you so beautiful, so excited.

I stopped for a while. Then I said, "if that means there's something wrong with me, then fuck it. So be it."

She hadn't moved, or changed expression. I got up and left.

***************

The next two nights I slept in the guest room. We were virtually silent around one another. And then the third night Laurie made an extra-nice dinner and served a fancy wine, one we both particularly liked.

"I'm so grateful for what you told me, Glen. And I'm hoping it's a good sign, that it happened because you were starting to feel a little better about us, a little more able to trust me."

I nodded. She said, "were you embarrassed about it?"

I looked away, and nodded again.

Laurie came over and kneeled in front of me, laying her head on my lap. We sat there for several minutes, in silence.

Then she lifted her head. "There's nothing to be embarrassed about," she said. Her voice was surprisingly strong. "I'm the one who fucked up, the only one.

"Well," she said with a grimace, "there was Tom. But I'm the one you married, the one who made promises to. This is on me. And I'll never stop being sorry for what I did, and so sorry that I hurt you."

She stood up and took my hand, and led me towards the stairs. "Come and make love to your sorry-ass wife, Glen. Don't fuck me—make love to me, and let me show you how much you mean to me."

We made love, and it felt good. It was more than fucking. I wasn't done being angry, or hurt, or even suspicious. Not nearly. But my intuition told me that we would work it out.