Sure enough, there was Leo, looking like he'd gone 12 rounds with a heavyweight boxer who specialized in hitting people in the crotch. He was tall. I'll give him that. Probably six-two, with the kind of lean muscle that comes from regular gym sessions and a metabolism that hasn't been destroyed by 15 years of marriage and stress eating.
His hair was dark and messy in that carefully casual way that takes about an hour to achieve. And under normal circumstances, he probably would have been what most women would call handsome. These were not normal circumstances. His jeans were unbuttoned at the top, hanging loose around his waist, like he couldn't bear to have anything touching his skin down there.
He was moving with the same careful shuffle as Marissa, and his face had that grayish pallor that comes from spending all night in fluorescent lighting while medical professionals discuss your genitals in clinical terms. "Uh, hi," he said, his voice strained. "Is Marissa here? We need to... we need to talk about what happened last night."
What happened last night? Like it was some kind of natural disaster that had befallen them rather than the predictable result of adultery meeting industrial adhesive. "Sure, come on in," I said, stepping aside with a friendly smile. "Marissa just got back from work."
"She had some kind of emergency that kept her out all night." Leo's eyes widened slightly, and I saw him glance toward the bedroom where Marissa had disappeared. He was probably wondering if she'd already spun some elaborate cover story and, if so, what version he was supposed to stick to. "Right," he said slowly.
"The work emergency." "You know how it is," I continued, closing the door behind him. "Crisis management, damage control, trying to fix things that have gone completely wrong. Sometimes these situations require very delicate handling."
I was laying it on thick, but I couldn't help myself. The guy was standing in my living room, probably still feeling the effects of whatever industrial solvent they'd used to separate him from my wife. And he had no idea that I knew exactly what kind of emergency had kept them both busy all night. Marissa emerged from the bedroom wearing sweatpants and an oversized T-shirt.
The kind of outfit that screamed, "I am not okay, and I don't want anything touching my body right now." When she saw Leo standing in our living room, her face went through about 17 different expressions in the span of two seconds. "Leo," she said, her voice carefully controlled. "What are you doing here?"
"We need to discuss the situation from last night." They were both speaking in code, trying to have a conversation about their medical emergency without actually saying anything that might tip me off. It was like watching two people try to discuss a bank robbery using only words you'd find in a children's book. "Maybe you should sit down," I suggested helpfully.
"You both look like you're in pain." The look they exchanged was pure panic. Sitting down was obviously not on the agenda for either of them, which meant the hospital visit had been even more traumatic than I'd imagined. "Actually, I think I need to lie down," Marissa said quickly.