"The pain medication is making me dizzy." "And I should probably get going," Leo added. "I just wanted to make sure you were okay." "Of course she's okay," I said, putting my arm around Marissa's shoulders.
She winced when I touched her but tried to play it off as fatigue. "My wife is tough. She can handle anything life throws at her." Leo nodded awkwardly and headed for the door, moving like a cowboy who'd spent too many hours in the saddle.
"I... I'll call you later about the project." "Sure," Marissa said weakly. The project. After he left, Marissa collapsed onto the couch with a groan that she tried to disguise as a yawn.
"I think I'm coming down with something," she said. "Maybe you should sleep in the guest room tonight. I don't want you to catch whatever I have." Oh, I was pretty sure what she had wasn't contagious, unless stupidity and adultery were communicable diseases, which, come to think of it, might explain a lot about human behavior.
"Of course, honey," I said, bringing her a glass of water. "You just rest. I'll take care of everything." And I would, starting with planning Phase Three.
They say revenge is a dish best served cold, but I've always been more of a serve-it-blazing-hot-with-a-side-of-public-humiliation kind of guy. Besides, when your cheating wife is already walking like she's been kicked by a mule, why not add a little spice to her recovery process? I spent the rest of that afternoon playing the role of devoted husband with the kind of Oscar-worthy performance that would have made Meryl Streep weep with envy. I brought Marissa pillows, adjusted the thermostat, asked if she needed anything every 20 minutes, and generally behaved like a man whose biggest concern was his wife's mysterious work-related injury.
She was milking it for all it was worth. Of course, every movement was accompanied by a wince. Every position change required a dramatic intake of breath, and she developed this pathetic little whimper that she deployed whenever she thought I wasn't looking directly at her. It was like watching a one-woman production of The Suffering Wife, performed by someone who'd never actually experienced real suffering but had watched a lot of soap operas.
"I think I need to eat something," she said around 4:00 p.m., speaking from her position on the couch where she'd been arranged like some kind of wounded princess. "But my stomach is really sensitive right now. Maybe something light." Oh, her stomach was sensitive.
How interesting. I wondered if that had anything to do with the stress of spending nine hours in a hospital explaining to medical professionals why she was anatomically connected to a man who wasn't her husband, or if it was just a side effect of whatever painkillers they'd given her. "Of course, baby," I said, already heading toward the kitchen. "I'll make something special."
"You just rest." Something special indeed. I'd been planning this meal since she'd shuffled through our front door looking like a walking advertisement for the consequences of adultery. It was going to be a symphony of spice, a carefully orchestrated assault on her already compromised digestive system.