The timestamps were like a punch to the gut. Every late night at the office, every girls' night out, every "I'm too tired tonight, honey." All of it. All of it was lies.
The shower was still running. And I could hear Marissa humming some pop song like she didn't have a care in the world. Like she hadn't just blown up our entire marriage with a half-empty tube of Japanese lubricant and a secret chat app hidden in a fake grocery folder. I looked at the tube again, then at the messages, then back at the tube.
My hands had stopped shaking and started moving with a clarity I didn't know I possessed. I walked quietly to the kitchen, opened the junk drawer, and pulled out the tube of industrial-grade Superloo I'd bought for a home-repair project last month. If Marissa wanted to play games with expensive foreign lubricants, then by God, I was going to give her an experience she'd never forget. The shower finally stopped.
You know that feeling when you're watching a horror movie and you want to scream at the dumb blonde not to go into the basement? Well, imagine being the dumb blonde. Except instead of a basement, it's your own marriage. And instead of a serial killer, it's your cheating wife who's about to get the surprise of her lifetime.
I'd just finished my little arts-and-crafts project in the kitchen. Let's call it Extreme Home Makeover: Lubricant Edition. When I heard the bathroom door open, the sound of bare feet padding across our hardwood floors made my heart race, but not in the romantic way it used to. More like the I'm-about-to-watch-my-life-implode-in-real-time way.
I scrambled back to bed, clutching the doctored tube of Japanese love juice like it was the Holy Grail of marital revenge. My hands were steadier now, which was weird because you'd think discovering your wife's secret affair would make you shakier, not calmer. But there's something about having a plan, even a completely insane plan, that brings a certain Zen-like focus to a man's soul. Marissa emerged from the bathroom like she was auditioning for a shampoo commercial, all wrapped up in that fluffy white towel I bought her for Christmas two years ago.
The same towel that used to make my pulse quicken when it accidentally dropped during her post-shower routine. Now it just looked like a costume she was wearing to play the role of Faithful Wife. "Hey, babe," she said, and I swear her voice had that fake-sweet quality that women use when they're trying to cover up something. You know the tone?
The same one they use when they've accidentally spent 300 bucks at Target but only went in for laundry detergent. "You look tired." Tired? Lady, I just found out my entire marriage is a sham, and you think I look tired?
I wanted to laugh, but instead I just nodded and made some noncommittal grunt that could have meant anything from, "Yeah, long day," to, "I know you're screwing some guy named Leo." She padded over to the kitchen. Our kitchen, in our house, that we bought together when we still believed in things like forever and till death do us part. I could hear her moving around, opening cabinets, running the faucet.
The domestic sounds of a woman who was probably planning her next rendezvous while pretending to be a caring wife. A few minutes later, she came back with a tall glass of milk, holding it out to me like it was some kind of peace offering. "Here, drink this," she said, settling onto the edge of the bed. "It'll help you sleep better."
"You've got that early-morning meeting tomorrow, right?" And there it was, the early-morning meeting, the one I'd mentioned casually over dinner, the one she'd filed away in her cheating little brain as the perfect opportunity for another late-night adventure. Because nothing says devoted spouse like drugging your husband so you can sneak out for some extracurricular activities. I took the glass, studying her face in the dim light.