Open Window

There were little alarming clues that I'd purposefully locked away in my head before I saw the proof of my husband's infidelity sprawled before me on our queen-size sleigh bed that day. So my initial reaction to the slumbering half-naked teenager in our bed was not one of surprise. I found myself calmly approaching the open door of the adjoining master bathroom where my husband was in the process of showering off his sins. I stood in front of the spotless marble vanity and watched him through the mirror as he nonchalantly washed his hair. I stared at the shampoo suds as they drifted from the strands of his gorgeous golden hair down over his powerful shoulders and arms. The rest was obscured by the fog at the edges of the bathroom mirror.

My lack of sensation began in my toes, slowly curling its way up through the tendons of my feet, the muscles of my calves, the arteries in my thighs. Then a wave of nausea struck me so violently, my legs gave way beneath me and I found myself flat on the cold tile of the bathroom floor, my cheek pressing against the edge of the turquoise bath mat. I noticed the smell of fabric softener on the mat and began to count all the pointless little tasks I'd done habitually to try to make Eric happy and comfortable in this little life we'd created for ourselves and the children.

The futility of it struck me hard. All that energy and time wasted. I was furious at myself suddenly for ignoring the scent of perfume I'd never used wafting from his work shirts as I tossed them into the washing machine. I cursed myself for accepting with mild civility the family dinners interrupted by a last-minute meeting with a client he needed to see.

"Sarah." Eric's voice sounded hollow and unreal. I raised my head a few inches off the ceramic tile but could not force my gaze upward to his face. It was the last thing I wanted to see. No matter what solemn light might be emanating from those blue eyes, I didn't want to be drawn into it. So I stared instead at the golden curling hair on his calves and tried not to remember how it felt brushing against my bare rib cage when I used to kneel before him and worship him with my mouth when we first got married. Back when everything was magical and shimmering with hope.

I heard movement in the bedroom but didn't acknowledge her presence any more than I had acknowledged the presence of my husband. I heard a soft gasp in the doorway and then retreating footsteps across the wooden bedroom floor. Shakily, I sat up and pushed my hair out of my face. Still I couldn't look at him, too afraid that seeing his eyes would make this nightmare more real.

Perhaps I expected a half-hearted denial from my husband of two years. Maybe an apology laced with guilty tears. But he surprised me. He methodically dried himself off with a thick striped towel; one of a set we'd received as a wedding gift; and pulled on a pair of blue plaid boxer shorts. Then he looked at himself in the mirror with his hands braced on either side of his half of the bathroom counter and sighed.

"Buster." I heard myself whisper pathetically. The kids and I had been on our way to the lake house but we'd had to turn around when Alex, with all the fierce spirit of a typical 16-month-old, began to cry out for her stuffed rabbit, Buster. Michael had rolled his eyes at me, exasperated already at being stuck in the car with his boring Mom and annoying little sister. So we'd turned back and driven the 30 miles back home to get Alex's rabbit.

I'd expected to find Eric getting ready for work or possibly sitting down for a quick bowl of cereal before hitting the road. I certainly didn't expect to find his administrative assistant lying naked in our bed, looking as if she'd just had the most amazing physical experience of her life.