C is for Caught

 

 

Caught

 

“I don’t love you anymore, Paul. Can’t you just accept that?” My wife of fifteen years threw a handful of clothes into the open suitcase on the bed. I couldn’t imagine her not folding them into neat little stacks, each shirt or pair of jeans categorically paired with its match. She tossed in a cluster of undergarments; all the really sexy stuff, I noticed. Where had she been hiding that?

“Come on, Jane.” I reached for her hand but she pulled away. “Can’t we talk about this?”

She stopped packing just long enough to glare at me. “What about last week? I wanted to talk then, but you just couldn’t get away from the office.”

“I was here all day Sunday. Why didn’t we talk then?” I said, feeling control slipping away.

She rolled her eyes. “Your body might have been here but your mind darn sure wasn’t. Who was she? The girl on your laptop?” Her nose crinkled up in that way I always found so cute.

“She was just. . . “ I felt my face burning.

“Paul. You’re blushing. How does it feel to be caught in your little lie? I certainly hope she’s worth it.” She sat on the corner of the bed, a lacy bra dangling from her slender fingers, the C-cups pointing up at me. A single tear rolled down her cheek.

With my finger, I touched her cheek and wiped at the tear. She closed her eyes and pressed against my palm. I felt her shaking.

“It’s not what you think,” I said. “Tina, the lady on my laptop, is with the adoption agency. I wanted to surprise you. They found us a baby. A little baby . . .”

Jane nearly knocked me over when she jumped into my arms, pulling me so tight I thought I might strangle, kissing every square inch of my face, yelling over and over, “I love you! I love you! I love you, Paul!”