Cheater

Grunting, Max hiked his pants up over his thighs and slid the belt to, cinching in the slight belly he had developed over the past few years. Happy fat his wife had called it, a sign that he was content with married life.
He stood over the bed and watched the sleeping form tangled in the sheets, her breathing slow and even. Leaning over, he stroked her hair and tugged the coverlet over her pale shoulder, so soft and white it barely contrasted with the hospital white of the bed sheets, especially in the dim light the moon cast across the bed. He made his way to the bathroom, stumbling once over some dark heap on the floor, likely his own suitcase. Muttering curses under his breath he turned the faucet on, washed his face without waiting for the water to get warm, and combed his hair, artfully hiding thinning spots where his hairline was beginning to recede. Once fairly satisfied with his efforts, he groped around the room gathering his things as best he could in the shadow obscured hotel room, and walked out, gently closing the door behind him.
Max hit the call button for the elevator and considered for a moment taking the stairs. Maybe he could work off a little of the pudge he had put on, he used to be quite fit after all. Before he could decide the elevator dinged its arrival and he hefted his satchel to his right shoulder, gripping the roll on with his left hand and stepping into the yawning opening of the car, the slow and sleepy movement reminding him of the lateness of the hour. Glancing at his watch, he leaned against the back wall and closed his eyes, waiting for the elevator to jerk to a stop on the first floor. The metal jaws of the lift gaped once more and the lobby received its late night visitor with barely a nod, the only other inhabitants being a night watchman who looked up only briefly from his mystery novel, and a janitor, polishing the marble entryway with an impossibly quiet behemoth of a machine. Max slipped out through the revolving door and hailed a cab, marveling at the contrast between the sleepy hotel and the busy street.
“Airport.” Max looked at his watch again. After going through security, he would still have hours to just sit, even if they switched him to the first flight out. The truth was Max just couldn’t stay. It was a bad idea to go back to the room with Rhonda, but after six months of flirting at work, and who knows how many drinks with dinner, he simply forgot to care. Rhonda, with long legs and short skirts, who paid attention to Max, though he was ten years her senior. He had fantasized about tonight countless times, but he never thought it would come to fruition. Just the memory gave him a physical jolt. She had been all too eager to undress for him, and he had lost any remaining reticence after the whiskey hit. Suddenly his stomach spasmed, as the full impact of what he had done began to wash over him. Could he lie to Jeanie? He sure couldn’t tell her the truth. She would leave him, taking the kids and half his hard earned assets. Pushing the thought down into the pit of his wrenched gut, he looked out the window at the passing street lights until he could feel the sweat cooling on his skin, and the pain and fear subsiding within him. It was over now anyway, and he was going home.
Jeanie Patterson sat at the pretty, tile top table in the gleaming breakfast nook of the designer kitchen, in her lovely, perfectly manicured house in the suburbs. In the living room, the grandfather clock chimed the one o’clock hour. Jean sat, staring down blindly at the grainy photographs and letter she had pulled out of the fax machine just after nine o’clock that morning. The letter had served as a cover sheet for the fax, and read
Jean,
You think you know your husband. You don’t. But I bet you both will pay to keep this from reaching the officers’ desks.
The letter was unsigned; bore the heading of Markettech, the company Max had been with for the past twenty years. Hesitantly Jean turned the page over and set it on the table hands shaking with anxiety. Pages two and three the fax contained needed no titles or text. Each photo, though grey toned and coarse, spoke volumes. The pictures she could not bring herself to see pieced together a story of sex and unfaithfulness. The clock bonged out its mellow chime for the two o’clock hour, and after looking down again at the pictures of her husband’s grainy and undeniably nude body she carefully stood, and retrieving a file folder from her small white filing cabinet, labeled it menopause information. She slipped the fax into the folder and filed it in alphabetical order, and turned away from the cabinet to get steaks out of the freezer to defrost for dinner.
It had been many weeks since Max had been home from his business trip gone awry. He had settled into daily grind and all but forgotten his affair. At the office, his dealings with Rhonda were brief and uneventful. At home, his wife was oblivious and consumed with her latest charity project. Glad that he had avoided any fallout from his indiscretion, he climbed into his Jetta and started his commute home, pleased with his recent acquisitions and with life in general. Once he was on the freeway and packed tightly into the rush hour pack, he speed dialed home.
“Jean, need anything for dinner?” As well as being pleased with his newfound energy at work, he had been making more effort at home, calling in when he was going to be late, offering to help out around the house, and generally taking more interest in all things domestic. “Well, I’ll stop at the store then, and pick up some wine.” He slid the cell phone back in its holster and cranked up the tunes. Jean must be happy…prime rib and garlic mashed potatoes. His favorite.
Jean carefully set the table and lit a pair of tall beeswax candles she had made in a craft class. She chopped vegetables, tore salad and made the place settings as pretty as she ever had…set for two. She heard the door from the garage open and shut, and looked up to see her husband beaming in the doorway.
“Good Lord Jean, what did I do right?” He handed her the bottle of pinot noir and shrugged off his suit coat. “I’ll be right back, got to get more comfortable. He walked away pulling off his tie and kicking his shoes into the corner by the door on his way past. Jean stood still and listened to the sound of him from the back of the house. Then with a sigh, she pulled the cork from the expensive bottle of wine and checking one more time for her husband’s whereabouts slipped an oh so slightly rancid smelling white powder from the utensil drawer and poured as much as she dared into the bottle. She wiped the lip and gently swirled the bottle till the powder disappeared and placed the bottle and two glasses on the table next to the fragrant, steaming prime rib dinner.
Max finally came back into the kitchen, smelling of a fresh dose of cologne. He had taken extra time to shave, and was wearing the sweater his wife had given him for Christmas.
“What’s the sad face for hon?” He asked as he sat and poured the wine, sitting and spearing a slice of the succulent meat to his plate. Jean merely smiled sadly and walked to the filing cabinet in the corner, searching for something in one of the drawers. He tossed back the glass of wine and poured another, waiting to eat till she sat. She found the file she was looking for and sat down with it in her lap.
Max cleared his throat and took a swig from his glass. His face had gone quite red and beads of sweat dampened his forehead. He blinked and shook his head, tried clearing his throat. He tried, but could not speak. As he stared at his wife, trying to comprehend, she smiled. She pushed the plate back from his seat and replaced it with the open file. He looked at the pictures in horror, fully understanding what was happening to him now. Jean looked into his bulging eyes, face red, blue tinged lips parting and closing as he worked desperately to breathe.
“I know you, after all.” Jean said as stood up from the table. His eyes rolled wildly as she stood, picked her coat up from the chair at the end of the table, and left, never looking back.