Dear Diary,
My wifes lover was stunning. If I were a man, Id pick her in a heartbeat. You know the sortwomen who know their worth, walk with poise, stare straight ahead, listen intently. Their movements are unhurried; they dont need to flash cleavage or bare backs to attract attentionthey command the room with a calm, regal air and never panic.
She would have chosen her too, as a complete opposite of herself. Because what is she? Constantly rushing, shouting at the children and at me, dropping everything she touches, never finishing a task, swamped at work with a disgruntled boss. She lives in foreverworn jeans and sweatershirts. Ironing a blouse feels like a monumental chore; shes long since given up on smoothing out those ruffles. Thankfully the new dryer does the heavy lifting, leaving the iron almost redundant.
The lover, meanwhile, was pure elegancefigure, posture, legs, hair, eyes, faceso perfect it seemed impossible to breathe. She hadnt inhaled since the moment she saw me, or rather, since she saw me. By chance, on a work trip to a faroff district of Manchester, she ducked into the first café she found for a bite. The job was done, the hunger was real. In the packed shop she found a quiet corner, sat down, opened the menu and lifted her gaze. No, it wasnt a trick of the lightshe recognised me from behind, and then saw my wife.
He was holding her hands in his palms, kissing her fingertips. How vulgar, she thought, as if your fingers smelled of incense. Yet the woman was undeniably attractive, objectively so.
She ordered soup and a salad, ate without tasting, and lingered, waiting for us to leave. She feared being seen. She didnt need to; I was wholly absorbed in my own world at that moment. It felt like the lingering seconds after a burnseeing the mark, knowing the pain is just seconds away, living in that suspended dread while trying to cool the skin with frantic blows. It should have hurt, but inside it was hollow.
I returned on time, as always in a good, eventempered mood. She always hurried, corralled everyone, while I was a steady sanguine, methodical, with a solid sense of humour. A dash of my humour would have helped her now; she wasnt built for this situation.
All evening I felt the urge to ask plainly, in a detached tone, So, hows the lover? Saw you at Café N. earliershes lovely, I get it, Id have been tempted myself. To watch the beads of sweat form on his forehead, his cheeks flush as he tries to stay composed. Then she might have retorted, What now? Introduce the kids, theyll have to like the new mum. And where does that leave me? A roof over my head or being led to yours? She never said any of that. I simply pulled her into bed, held her close, and fell asleep quickly.
Perhaps we havent been intimate yet, she thought, sliding onto her side of the bed, laughing silently. She imagined herself as the woman caught in the act of being cheated on, yet insisting it was just a misperception. Maybe were still in the first stageflirtation, shared breaths, thoughts in sync. Im a discreet lover, no words, no muscle tension.
She tossed restlessly, sleeping in fragments, dreaming of bright flowers and other mistresses in scarlet dresses. She woke with a heavy head, moved slower than usual around the flat, calmly coaxed the children to school. All the while she wondered what a woman in her shoes should do. Google it? The internet offered no answers, and she had none herself. Should she try to move on? She already wassame routine, punctual husband arriving home without a lipstick stain on his shirt, no foreign perfume lingering, children bouncing about, Sunday trips to the cinema. No change in behaviour. The same twiceaweek intimacy, sometimes three times if Im particularly attentive.
Did she perhaps mistake the café in that distant Manchester suburb? No. She called me at noon; I didnt answer. She hailed a black cab and rushed back to the same café, concocting a plausible story for the driverWere waiting for a parcel for work. My car sat across the lane. My lover and I stepped out together, got into my vehicle, and drove off. She turned pale, asked the driver for water, pretended to make a call, and shouted into the empty handset, Damn you and your parcel! I cant wait any longer, Im off to work! She cared little what the driver thought of her.
Knowing a lover exists can turn a life upside down. Divorce? Probably. How else to live? Endure? Why? For what? She recalled a couple of years ago when a friends husband had a mistress. He hid, masked, but his wife eventually uncovered the truth. There was a scandal; he denied everything even when confronted with undeniable messages on a smartphone. He claimed sabotage by jealous rivals. Then her husbandmy friendssaid, Id never lie. If Ive done wrong, Ill own up, break it off if my family matters, or leave but provide for them. She felt a swell of pride for his honesty. Its easy to resolve someone elses drama from a distance, especially when you bear no responsibility.
When youre in the thick of it, facing both wife and lover, courage evaporates in an instant. She approached our table at the café, sat on the free chair. The lovers eyes widened in surprise. I froze, then slumped onto the seat. Silence hung. I found it oddly amusing to watch them. The lover instantly knew who she wasmaybe she even knew.
I tried to speak, but she raised her hand and stopped me: This isnt what I imagined, is it? Honestly, theres nothing extraordinary here. These things happen. But think about how to untangle itchildren, a shared flat, elderly parents. Youre clever; youll manage. She left without haste, the freshly pressed dress flattering hershed been saving it for a special occasion.
Lesson learned: truth may surface in the most ordinary of cafés, but how you respond shapes the rest of your life.
