Cheating

I was eight months pregnant, my hormones were raging, and there was a sweaty man working in the baby’s room. That afternoon I stopped being the proper wife everyone thought I was.

I never get involved with clients, I told him. But his body was already pressed against mine and my own voice sounded like a lie as I closed the garage gate.

I saw his name on the screen and knew I shouldn’t answer. But I did, and the moment I heard his voice I was again the woman I swore I’d never be.

I parked next to her car, not knowing that my free afternoon would end with her climbing into mine, in the darkest corner of the parking lot.

At eighty-seven he thought he’d heard it all. Then she knelt on the other side of the grille and began telling him what she did when her husband traveled.

When they carried him to bed asleep, I knew that night wouldn’t end like the others. And I regret nothing that happened after.

I hid on the locker-room mezzanine with Bruno pressed against my back. Below, my mother and her friend were undressing among the workers, and I couldn’t look away.

I only meant to be nice and carry her grocery bags up to her apartment. She offered me a soda, changed clothes, and left her bedroom door ajar.

I’d watched her for years in ways I shouldn’t have. That night, after catching her with another man, she got into my car not knowing I had secrets of my own.

When her number appeared on the screen as a missed call, I knew that night in the mountains was going to break something in her that could never be put back together.

At four in the morning, locked under the sheets with my mother’s phone, I started opening folder after folder without suspecting that nothing would ever be the same again.

That afternoon the massage left me burning. I never imagined I’d end up on my knees in front of a stranger in my own living room, or who would catch me there.

I’d spent weeks avoiding her, convinced what we had was over. Then the phone rang and her voice was enough to tell me I’d fall again.

She slipped into bed naked except for her thong and whispered in my ear: don’t turn around, don’t say anything, just listen. Then she started telling me about that night.

She was old enough to be my mother and married to a man who barely looked at her. I only wanted to go back to that kitchen every afternoon.

We’d spent three years obeying one rule between partners. That cold night, in her green dress and a dark office, we knew we were about to break it.

I’ve spent thirty years pretending to be the modest wife my husband thinks he set free. What he doesn’t know is that on this cruise, I’m the one pulling the strings.

When she told me what really turned her on, I knew we were opening a door we’d never be able to close again. And I didn’t want to close it.

A yellow Post-it on the little box said a single word: “Play me.” It was two in the morning, and curiosity won out over exhaustion.

I turned fifty, I’ve been married for thirty years, and I’ve never been faithful. These are the secret getaways that kept my marriage alive.