Fidelity

The message was on his desk when he came back from lunch, stuck to his mouse, written in bold black marker on a sticky note: SHE'S WITH HIM NOW. GO HOME.

He stuck his head outside of his cube, checking to see if anyone was watching him but saw no one. He looked at the note again, his worst fear realized. There had been hints of an affair, but he never brought himself to believe it, thinking it was just the green-eyed monster, that he was paranoid. There was the musk of cologne that he'd never smelled before, the pair of earrings he inadvertently found while looking for dress socks. She claimed that he had given them to her years ago. He didn't argue it and convinced himself that it was his failing memory and nothing else.

And the working out. She hadn't been on an exercise bike in years until recently. She said it was because she needed it, had for a long time now. In a sense he supposed it was true--not that she was unattractive, she was--but it struck him strange at the time.

He considered his own body for a moment. He could certainly go a few laps in the pool.

But now the note. Could it be a hoax? Could someone be playing with his fears? But he hadn't voiced his concerns to anyone, not even his closest friends. He convinced himself they were a product of an idle mind, that it was because marriage was full of hills and valleys and they were just going through a slow patch, that it was normal. Marriage wasn't always passion and fireworks. He had come to accept that. But now the note. He couldn't stop thinking about it. He had to know.

He tried thinking of other things during the drive, but nothing could distract him. He stuck the sticky note onto the dash. The words burned into his head, a multitude of scenarios unfolding in his mind. What would he do if he caught her in the act? What if she wasn't there? What if she was, but she was just home early for something? What would he say the reason was that he was home early? Had she mentioned she would be home? Was today her short work day? He couldn't think straight anymore.

When he pulled into the driveway, her car was already there and an unfamiliar blue car was parked on the street two doors from their house. A lump formed in his throat. He had trouble breathing.

There was no one in sight when he went in, but there was music coming from upstairs, sounded like it was from the master bedroom. Oh God, he thought. Were they in his own bed? Then he saw the jacket hanging on the stairway banister. His memory may be failing, but he was sure it didn't belong to him.

Despair gave way to anger. He stepped onto the first step and it creaked. He carefully took the next few steps. He needed to catch them in the act. He needed to actually see it to believe it, that his sixteen year marriage was over. The music grew louder. Then he heard her voice, or more specifically, a moan. Maybe it was part of the music, he thought, even as he scolded himself for being so weak. He would know that voice anywhere. He felt his anger ebb, relenting to despair again. It was the sound of squeaking springs that finally did him in. He stopped, couldn't move anymore. He didn't want to catch them anymore, couldn't bear the image of it.

He went back downstairs and considered just leaving. He was drenched in sweat though, and there was a shower on the first floor. As much as he hated staying another minute in the house, he couldn't go back to work in this state, as if he could get any more work done today.
There was a fresh load of clean laundry folded neatly by the washer. He grabbed some clothes.

The water felt good. Hot. Cleansing. But it didn't wash anything away, not really. He stood under the shower head, not moving, and before he knew it he was crying. He couldn't remember the last time he had cried or how it had felt. He could still hear the music over the water, or at least he thought he did. He couldn't tell.

It was an old house and the pipes rattled whenever water was used. Surely she must have heard it. He heard what he thought was footsteps on the stairs and the front door close.

"Hon, is that you?"

The voice surprised him. He wanted to call her a whore, a harlot. He wanted to her how badly she betrayed him, how disgusted he was with her. But he didn't.

"Yeah." His voice was hoarse. He hoped she didn't hear the catch in his voice.

Out of the shower, all evidence of tears erased by it, he saw her sitting in the living room with the newspaper, nonchalantly.

"You're home," he said. It wasn't a question.

She smiled broadly, the kind that he hadn't seen in a long while, the kind that hid deceit.

"Short day today," she said.

"Oh."

"You? How come you're back so early?"

"I forgot something. Had to come back for it. I was tired too. Needed that shower to wake me up."

He smiled his plastic smile too, but wasn't sure it went over. He had less practice with it. He could tell she wanted to ask him why he didn't use the shower upstairs, or what it was that he forgot, but it would've opened her up for other questions. He wondered if she knew that he knew. So neither one of them said anything else. He was at very edge of knowing the truth, but was too afraid to confront it. To confront it was to acknowledge it as a reality. It was a stalemate.

"Well, I'm off to work again. Dinner at 7?"

"I'm going out with Darlene."

Darlene, he thought. Sure.

"Okay."

She got up and gave him a peck on the cheek that barely grazed his skin. It was the farthest away from him that she could be while it still technically being a kiss. He smelled that unfamiliar scent again when she was close.

When he left, he saw that the jacket was gone from the banister. As he started the car, he noticed that the blue car was gone. He took the sticky note off the dash and crumpled it as if he was squeezing her. He sat there for a couple of minutes, letting the car warm up while he thought. He considered the note in his hand, smoothed it out, and then put it on her windshield.

"Goodbye," he said and drove off.