Tiny Little Things

This is another short story without sex, dealing with a cheating spouse and how a fictional character deals with it. There is no burning, just a little bit of slapping. The main character does not do the slapping. For a change, I picture myself as the other man, the tall, well-muscled, handsome man with a lot of taste. I said I picture myself, I didn't say I am good at drawing as I am rather short, with a pot-belly, rather plain, and I believe a bottle of Gato Negro is a good wine to bring to a party.

Thanks to Robertreams for his patient editing and I want to wish good recovery to Scalia for his surgery in February.

Any mistakes are mine alone as I added a few things after the story came back from editing.

Your votes and constructive comments are appreciated.

Chapter 1 - Discovery

Martha and I love to linger in bed a few minutes every morning after the alarm-clock rings. After so many years, we should know better. These warm lazy extra minutes in bed must be repaid by frantic scrambling to get ready for work. A few years back the payback also included a mad dash to get the kids ready for school. Now, with our two kids gone, our lingering in bed is more frequent and so is the mad early morning rush - the one before the traffic rush.

To make matters worse, I had to leave the house a good twenty minutes earlier than usual. Martha had to work late tonight so instead of taking my car - we work not far from each other so we commute together - I decided to ride my mountain bike to work. The weather forecast was also predicting a splendid spring day.

I took a last bite of a toast, washed it down with coffee and was ready to go.

"I'm on my way Honey", I yelled toward the bathroom where Martha was still busy.

I waited for her to put her head out the door and talk to me, but I heard no reply. "See you later tonight. I love you", I added after a few seconds.

I was running late, I didn't have time to ponder this lack of response from Martha. I tossed my keys in my backpack and left.

I am Frank McKay, a 53 years old office manager for the state Department of Public Works. My wife Martha, 49, works as an administrative assistant at the head office of a manufacturing business. We are both better than average looking, but Martha is dazzling if I may say so myself. She doesn't look her age; many men glance her way when we go out.

Ten minutes later, I heard a whistle, announcing I had received a text message. A few seconds later, my phone started ringing. While biking, it is difficult enough to keep an eye on all the cars without talking on the phone. I would answer the calls at work.

I made it on time to work, but was so busy getting properly dressed for an 8:45 meeting, I left my cell phone in my backpack, forgetting all about the phone calls. Later, I followed a group of colleagues to lunch. Finally, at my afternoon coffee break, I remembered the phone calls.

I had five messages from Martha, two texts and three voicemails.

The first text message was sent at 8:10 and read: "You took the wrong keys. Call me."

The second text was sent at 8:35: "I'm waiting for your call."

I then listened to the voicemail. The first one was left at 8:11.

"Hi honey! You took the wrong set of keys when you left. Can you drop them at my work this morning? I need them. Call me." Her voice was a bit snappish and I didn't understand why. She doesn't need her keys at work. They use a state of the art keycard security system.

The second voice mail was left around 10:15. "What are you doing Dave? I've been waiting for my keys all morning. Call me. I have better things to do than just wait for you." I have known Martha for more than 25 years, 23 as husband. It was obvious to me she was royally pissed off. Anger and contempt dripped from every word.

Before listening to her last voicemail, I grabbed the keys from my backpack and put them on my desk. I listened to the final message, left at 12:55. "Where are you? I am still waiting for my keys. I don't know what you were thinking this morning but they are better be on my desk this afternoon. I need them." Martha wasn't keeping her anger in check this time; she was nearly yelling.

I was dumbfounded. Lately, I had been getting used to Martha being mad at me over nothing. Nearing 50, I had thought perhaps she was going through changes in her body that made her behave oddly. That's the explanation she gave me when I pointed out her change in behavior. She had rebuked me when I asked her to see a doctor for hormone treatments, or whatever they do with menopause. Life with Martha had become very difficult lately; our relationship was strained.

But it was stranger to witness such an outburst over a set of keys she didn't need. I was working myself up. Two can play the anger game, I guess. I decided not to call her, to simply wait for five o'clock to drop off the goddamned keys.

Shortly after five, I reached Martha's workplace. Surprise, surprise, I was just in time to see her pull out of the parking lot and head home. Despite the heavy traffic and my biker's ability to pedal through stopped traffic, I was never able to catch up. Anyway, doing so was useless as we were both going home. I knew she would soon be out of heavy traffic and pick up a speed I wouldn't be able to match, so I decided to go my normal more direct route to try to beat her home.

I was taken by surprise a few minutes later when I caught sight of her car heading toward another area of town. It was an easier route for me - I can cut through the park - but definitely not the best way for Martha. She turned onto a street lined with many two stories duplexes, parking at the curb. I was getting suspicious so I slowed, spying her from afar as she climbed a flight of stairs and rang a doorbell while texting on her phone. Even from where I stood across my bike, I heard her text message ring. She read the message, returned to her car and took off.

"What the heck had happened?" I asked myself. Martha - who was supposed to be working late - had driven to an unknown apartment. I grabbed the set of keys I held, to take a closer look. I recognized her car key and our house keys. However, there was another key I didn't recognize. I had a feeling it was the key Martha was missing so much. I went to the duplex, climbed the stairs, put the key in the front door lock and turned. The click of that latch marked the end of my marriage with Martha.

I didn't open the door. I had to think. What should I do? My growing anger made it tempting to enter the apartment of my wife's lover, wreaking havoc on his belongings. Or I could wait for him and kick the shit out of him. Or, I could simply walk to the police station, go directly to jail, not pass GO, and not collect my payday. No, blind anger was not the right answer. But I had to do something.

I looked inside the apartment. I was technically committing illegal entry, but if I hurried, I wouldn't get caught. The first thing I saw was mail neatly piled on a small table in the entryway. I grabbed a phone bill. It was addressed to Steve Mueller. I didn't have a clue who that was, but the phone bill could be handy. I put it in my pack. It was enough information for now. I didn't want to be caught snooping in a stranger's apartment so I got the hell out of there.

Instead of heading home, I pedaled my way to my neighborhood hardware store. Within minutes I had a duplicate of the key.

I was expecting Martha to be home, but her car wasn't in the driveway. I didn't know what her lover had texted her, but it had to have been a message to meet him elsewhere. I decided to toy a bit with Martha. I phoned her, but she didn't answer. I didn't leave a message but I sent her a text.

"I am running late too but I'll soon drop the keys. I should be at your office pretty soon."

It took seconds to receive the reply.

"No need. I made other arrangements. I just stepped out of my office. Just go home," was her immediate reply. In her head she probably had added . . . "and leave me alone, dumbass."

I spent a shitty evening. Martha didn't come home until ten o'clock. That gave me a good four hours to decide what to do.

First, I wanted to have proof of her cheating. With the copy I now had on my keychain, it would be a piece of cake to do what was needed. The phone bill was damning in itself. The two of them had been constantly on the phone and texting each other, even in the evening when Martha and had been together. All that time I thought she had been texting our kids.

Did I really need to know why she had decided to ditch me? No! It was now of no consequence. Our love had ebbed over the last six months. There can be only so much indifference, reproach and nagging before a man's love begins to fade. I now realized my 'loving wife' had been pulling away from our marriage, but and I never knew. This day's discovery was the final blow to a very shitty marriage. We were done.

In our state, there is nothing to gain by a proof of adultery: irreconcilable differences would be the motive and a judge would split our assets 50-50. But, as a deceived husband, I felt I had much to achieve to regain a bit of my pride. I would not allow Martha to lie her way out of the marriage. The reason would be made public to our children, parents and friends. Knowing how Martha has changed over the last few months, I wouldn't have been surprised if she had would tried to somehow make me the bad guy.

I did toy with many scenarios of revenge, but decided not to go that route. I had only a few years before early retirement and I didn't want to spoil that. Retirement would not be what I had envisioned all those years ago when I hooked up with Martha, but it beat going to jail and losing my job. Now, at least, I would enjoy my retirement the way I wished, not the way Martha wanted.

I decided to face Martha's irritation when she came back from her date, to make it work in my favor. Her anger might lead to a little fight and would excuse my icy behavior for the next few days. However, having had sex with Steve must have mollified her a bit. Now, I was paying close attention, I realized she had been averting my eyes quite a bit.

When Martha finally came home, she was surprised to see me still sitting in the living room. She dropped her spare car key in the container we keep by the door and grabbed her own set of keys I had put there earlier. Looking at the keys, she dropped them in her handbag. I was expecting some nagging but she didn't utter a single word.

She went straight to the bathroom.

"I'm tired", she said to somebody in the hallway. "I'm taking a shower and going straight to bed."

"What?" I asked. "No loving tonight?"

Her only answer was to close the bathroom door behind her and lock it. Do you know many empty nesters locking the bathroom door? I didn't notice it before, but it had often been the case when Martha returned from 'working late'. My God, I was so dumb. No wonder she is ditching me.

I watched a late show before going to bed. I was hoping Martha would be fast asleep. I swear she was still awake, sleep escaping her too.

The next morning, on the pretext of a meeting, I took off early in my own car. Instead of work I stopped by an electronic store and bought a few interesting items. It took me only a couple of hours to wire Mueller's apartment for sound and image. While in the apartment for such a long time, I had time to look around. It was very well furnished. Many items were certified antiquities. I don't know if he had a maid service, but his apartment was impeccable, not a speck of dust was anywhere in sight. I wonder if he were anal-retentive where cleanliness was concerned. It was food for thought. I hoped my little spy gear would go unnoticed for a few days, at least long enough to get some juicy footage from my wife and her lover.

I shouldn't have worried about that. Back at the office after lunch, I received another text from Martha telling me not to wait for her as she had another late meeting. I made an appointment with a lawyer for the next day.

I drove by Mueller's apartment that evening and saw Martha's car. Despite all I had been through over the last 24 hours, I still felt my hearth sink at another proof of her betrayal. Tomorrow would be a decisive day. I drove back toward the house. I was tempted to simply check in at a motel in town, but it would be ridiculous to go through such expense when I was not the one at fault.

Once home, I thought about sleeping in the guest bedroom, but again decided I wasn't the one fucking up our marriage. Let Martha sleep there. I moved all her belongings into the guest bedroom, helter-skelter. I simply grabbed whole drawers, dumped them on the bed, followed by the garments from her side of the closet, an overall very comforting activity. I felt better each armload I carried to "her" room.

When she came home that evening she looked worse than she had the previous evening. She had that just-fucked look she can have after a five hours fuck fest. Again she was surprised to see me. She didn't offer any explanation about her lateness or appearance; as if she could offer a reason. I couldn't believe I could hurt that much.

Knowing a divorce was looming over us, I grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the bedrooms.

"What are you doing Frank? You're hurting me," she asked.

I forced myself to sound more assertive than I felt. I knew I was a few minutes from losing it. I had to act quickly. I had to act in control.

"Shut the fuck up bitch," I loudly said.

It was so out of character for me to say such a thing, it was as if I had punched her. Suddenly, the accusing glares I had received over the last months were replaced by fear. But what fear? Fear of violence? Or fear of discovery? I had no way to know and wasn't about to ask.

I opened the guest bedroom so she could see her things piled there.

"Starting tonight bitch," I said harshly. "This is your room."

And I pushed her inside.

"We're done as husband and wife! Stay the hell away from me!" I cautioned her. "As a matter of fact, it would be best if you would just pack up and move out right away."

Martha was annoyed and angry. She fought back, trying to gain the higher ground.

"Oh no Buster! If one of us is sleeping in the guest room, it's you," she said. "I've broken my back taking care of the kids, you and the house. Show some respect or leave the house."

Did I want to argue with her? Nope!

I shoved her hard, back into the guest room, surprising us both with the violence of my action.

"I give you two choices," I snarled at her. "Either you sleep here until our divorce is final, or you go live with Steve Mueller this very moment."

His name hit her like a karate chop. Despite her behavior over the last months, Martha still knew me better than anyone. She realized I knew about her cheating and she knew I had no forgiveness in me. She knew I would never accept her back in my life, and we would not part as friends. Who wants to make friend with somebody who stabbed you in the back? I saw in her eyes she hadn't envisioned getting caught and she was unprepared for a confrontation. After a few seconds, I saw defeat written all over her face.

She backed into the bedroom, pushed her clothing away and sat on the bed. Tears inched down her cheeks. She said something I didn't hear.

"What?" I snapped.

"I'm sorry," she said a bit louder. "I have been so stupid. Please don't hate me."

"You know me Martha," I said. "I will not hate you after a while, but I sure won't love you either. Hell, I don't know if I could like you."

I began to close the door but I wanted to hurt her a bit more.

"I would prefer to do it quickly," I said flatly. "I would appreciate if you would move out as soon as possible. Just sign the divorce papers you'll soon receive and we will not have to meet ever again."

I closed the door, the last time I would talk to Martha until the court hearing. The last sound I heard was her sobbing.

The next day, I recovered my spying gear from Mueller's apartment. Next stop was my lawyer. As my request was straightforward, he assured me divorce papers could be delivered within two days. I paid his retainer and left. I tried to go back to work but I was more than useless. I finally explained my predicament to my supervisor who told me to take a few days off.

I went home but when I arrived, I saw Martha in the process of moving, so I parked down the street. From the video I had watched at my lawyer office, I recognized Steve Mueller helping her. I had an urge to deck him but the three inches and forty pounds he had on me made it more wishful thinking than a possibility. I drove away.

Later that evening, I felt for the first time the real impact of Martha's betrayal. My anger faded, replaced by such loneliness, as I had never experienced. Divorce would have been traumatic if our kids were still living with us. What was a blessing was also a curse, as I had nobody to turn to for solace. My parents were gone; my brother and sister were living across the country. I decided to contact my two daughters.

I was surprised to learn Martha hadn't contacted them yet. She had been constantly phoning and texting them at college. I guess she found it easier to lie to me than to her kids.

A few weeks ago, if somebody had asked me about the proper behavior toward a cheating spouse, I would have advocated discretion, to keep the peace, and respect for 23 years of devotion as a mother and wife. Now, hurting, desperate for love or, at least, sympathy, I told my two daughters, Mandy and Tess, everything. I felt good knowing neither of them doubted me when I told them their mother was cheating on me, had left me for another man. I though for a moment they might have known about their mother, but they were quite upset at the news and I discarded that thought. My barely controlled sobbing also helped convince them. Their acceptance was a great consolation to me.

I made a big mistake that day. By the time I was finished phoning the kids, I had already drunk one full bottle of wine. I am not a heavy drinker. Martha and I might drink one or two bottles of wine in a week or sometimes a six-pack of beer. The mistake wasn't the drinking. It was the alcohol-induced self-pity.

When faced with failure, a man must accept responsibility for such failure, but, hard as I tried, I could not fathom what I had done to push Martha away. My work had never been an impediment to my family life. I didn't have to travel, maybe once every five years for a training session. My overtime was limited to a few fixed periods of the year.

I might have let myself go a bit over the last few years, since I hit 50, to be truthful. But I was in no way fat or out of shape. Though I sure was no spring chicken, from what I had seen earlier, Mueller didn't seem much younger or in better shape than I.

I was wondering if he were a better lover, an area where my knowledge was rather thin. I had not had many experiences before I met Martha, only four girlfriends from age 18 to 28, and Martha and I had much to learn together after we met.

I don't think Martha was ditching me for social status either. His apartment didn't seem outlandish. His tasty pieces of furniture showed more that he wasn't a father than anything else. We were probably in the same revenue bracket.

As I curled into a foetal position for the night, it came to me that there was no good reason she was leaving; only that I was who I am. Can you fight being you? Could I cease to exist so everything would be all right?

Chapter 2 - Moving on

My wake-up call the next morning came around ten o'clock. I picked up the phone without looking at the caller ID.

"You son-of-a-bitch," yelled Martha. "You didn't have to be so gross with Mandy and Tess."