The Tale

So bored of revision, I could write a novel. And so I did. At least, it's a continuation of The Dame's tale from previous entries. I write from the point of view of the wife...

That moment. The moment you know that your husband is cheating. It’s so clearly defined. Round and tangible, an apple. And the guilt, the sorrow, or, the indifference, is so utterly edible.

It was the sex we had, you see. Very careless, very hurried, very passionate, very unlike us post-marriage. Eleven minutes of intercourse and during the seventh minute, it hit me. He had changed. He was trying to fuck the guilt out of his system. To test where things had gone wrong.

And so I let him continue. Of course, the orgasm I don’t recall. Nor do I recall looking into his eyes. After all, I always felt that that’s what I’d do; look into his eyes, spot the serpent and turn away from him. It’s almost as though I’d planned this to happen.

All I remember is asking him, two minutes after he’d come inside me, whether he was cheating. And he responded with a grunt, turning away as though he hadn’t heard. Of course, at that very point, our marriage was over.

When I say over, I don’t mean I threw his clothes out onto the patio, or take my rage out on the children.

Rage, you see, it’s best kept inside. It cements the soul, prevents it cracking. In fact, we said nothing about it what had happened for a long time after.

I wanted to keep him with me you see. I wanted to punish him through my indifference. I wanted so much to show him just how slowly a marriage could crumble. And just at the point when I felt he’d start to re build our family, I’d show him that the breaks had long been transported.

That’s the only way I know how to teach a man a lesson. Slowly.

So, it was in the thick of this rage that we held our anniversary ‘celebration’. And I thought it the perfect opportunity to invite her along. The third person in our relationship.

And the other woman. Oh, well she was my sister.