A cheating wife, a best friend

A cheating wife, a best friend, It was Sunday. I had borrowed my wife’s car to pick up two new lawn chairs. I was listening to This American Life on NPR and wanted to write down the name of a book mentioned. While steering with one hand, I dug in the center console with the other, feeling under the CD cases for a pen. I pulled out random objects: a Bit-O-Honey wrapper, a folded Starbucks drink jacket, a quarter, a folding hair brush, a rigid circle with a squishy center. Nothing else feels like a condom in its wrapper. I almost ran off the road.

You remember moments like this as though they played in super slow motion, frame by frame – the glance to the left that took in the red Toyota next to you driven by the red haired fat guy with an earring, the speedometer needle hovering at 34 mph, the dust on the dashboard, the light up ahead that you know will stay green, the squashed bug on the lower part of the windshield, the ridges of a CD case scraping your wrist, the moment when you touch the unexpected.

Your thoughts are harder to organize. Though you knew it wasn’t possible, did you think, “Is that mine”? Did you think, “She’s cheating on you”? Thoughts aren’t as neat and clean as images. Was the main thought guilt for having stumbled onto what may be a dark secret? Was it fear? Was it that you did something wrong?

I pulled into a Burger King drive-through and got a medium coke. I parked in front of a “No Game Parking – Burger King Customers Only” sign and held the coke in my right hand, the condom in the left. I blinked. I always blink. Everyone always blinks, but this time I noticed I blinked. The coke tasted like nothing, just fizz with too much ice.

I checked the glove compartment. I checked the trunk. I opened the doors and looked under the seats. I found a small package wrapped in a plastic supermarket bag, stuffed under the passenger seat where it wasn’t visible unless you looked carefully.

In the bag was a notebook, a little spiral bound flip-style notebook. My heart pounded in my chest as I opened it. The first two pages were blank. The next two had lists:

“4/27 – HI – 1:30 5/1 – QI – 11 5/6 – TL – 1 5/11 – TL – 2 (must be out by 5)”

I counted 32 entries, covering 4 months and spaced every 4 or 5 days. The last entry referred to the next day, tomorrow: “8/29 – HI – 1:30”. One of the entries was crossed out.

If I’d found this notebook under other circumstances, I would probably not have noticed the lists or have wondered what they meant. I recognized the pattern: my work travel schedule. I recognized the crossed-out date: when I got sick and had to stay home. The condom told me what to think. Holiday Inn. Quality Inn. Travel Lodge. Holiday Inn tomorrow at 1:30 when I would normally be 125 miles away.

I hoped I was wrong – the condom said no. “OK. Let’s assume she’s cheating on you. This is 4 months. It isn’t a one-time thing. She’s seriously cheating on you. She’s keeping a fucking list. You’re going to lose her. You don’t want her. She’s trash. You love her. You have to confront her. You don’t want to deal with this. How are you going to find someone else?” I shook my head, closed my eyes and realized I was lost. “What if she’s a whore? What if she’s running some side business – but why would she keep that a secret? What if she’s in love with this other guy? What if it’s a woman?”

I scratched the back of my neck. Without knowing more, I didn’t know how to confront her. What would she say? “I’m sorry, honey. I never wanted you to find out. Oh, God! Please forgive me. I’m leaving you. I’ve made a terrible mistake. I’m being blackmailed. I need to fuck strange men. I don’t want to lose you. It’s all your fault for leaving me alone. Your cock isn’t big enough. He makes me come. I thought you were cheating and wanted revenge.” She might say anything. “I found out you’re sterile so I’ve been having sex with your brother to get pregnant.” Am I sterile and don’t know it? Why not go all the way: “I’m a vampire and I meet strange men in hotels to drink their blood. I’m a secret agent and what I’m doing is classified, but I want you to know, honey, that I’m only doing this for my country.” I put the condom and the notebook back in their places.

When you’re very sad, the bottom part of your face pulls toward the ground, as if gravity were affecting it more. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know what to think. I’d read enough about infidelity to know that a woman can fall into an affair because she’s unhappy, which meant that maybe this was in some way, to a certain extent, my fault.

My self-image didn’t crumble. My life didn’t end. I felt hurt, angry, sad, confused, and I seriously questioned in the darkness of those hours whether I’d chosen the wrong path in life, whether I was the wrong kind of person, whether I should change to be someone else.

That evening, I pretended to be normal. When Sherry tried to talk about the book she was reading, I told her I was concentrating on work, that I had a tough week ahead and couldn’t shake the worry. “I’m sorry, baby. I’m feeling a little quiet.” She went into the bedroom to read. I washed the dishes. I threw in a load of whites and fussed around until after she’d gone to sleep.

In the morning, I dressed quickly, left the house and made my morning calls from the car. I was at the local Holiday Inn by 10AM. It’s an older one, the kind where you can park near your room instead of entering only through the lobby.

Desperate times call for desperate measures. I’m not a good liar. I have a compulsion to tell the truth. I love to share information. That usually works in my job because I tell people what I know and either that helps them genuinely feel a bond with me or they’re nice to me so they can pick up more stuff. I hope it’s the former but I’ve long given up believing that business contacts are actually friends.

“Hi,” I said to the desk clerk. “I think my wife is meeting someone here at 1:30.” He barely reacted. “I think she’s having an affair. I want to see who she’s with.” He looked doubtful. “I just want to watch the security cameras.”

“I can’t do that, sir. All due respect, but you may be a crazy person. This hotel is responsible for guests, not for you. You may try to harm this woman. And I do not know she is even your wife.”

All good points. My first boss had taught me that when you’re going to do something new, when you’re covering new ground, give yourself extra time because nothing happens as planned.

If my life were a detective novel, I’d have slipped him 20 bucks. But I’m not a tough guy. I’m a negotiator and manager and I’m very good at both. We talked, the desk clerk and I, and he soon understood that it was better for the hotel if I watched the monitors in his presence, where he could see what I was doing. If I left, I could be watching outside and he would have no way of preventing any crazy act. The hotel would still be sued, so the best way to minimize his risk was to keep me in sight. I love coming to an agreement when both sides get what they want.

I bought us lunch at Subway – a Classic Tuna sub for me and a Chicken Bacon Ranch for him – parked my car across the street and walked back to the hotel. We watched the noon local news. I shared information with him, told him about the notebook and the condom. He told me about his family, about his nephew in prison, about his father’s bad heart. We ate our sandwiches and talked about fat calories and diets. He’d tried Atkins. We agreed the hardest part is keeping the weight off. We were fast becoming friends who would never meet again.

She arrived at 1:25. She sat in her car next to the entrance around the back, the one furthest from the street. I could see her clearly on the monitor, talking on her phone. She hung up and fiddled with her hair in the rear view mirror. At 1:33, a blue BMW parked next to her driver’s side. A tall man with brown hair got out and walked to the hotel door. He swiped his room key, opened the door and looked back at my wife. Sherry opened her car door, took one last look in the mirror, got out and walked toward the man. As she passed him, he put his arm around her hips and squeezed her to his body. The door closed.

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I have never used the word “cuckold”. Not in conversation, not in reference to any guy whose wife has cheated on him. The word never existed in my consciousness. It derives from the cuckoo bird, which lays its eggs in another bird’s nest so that bird will hatch and raise the cuckoo chick – which then grows bigger than the other chicks and takes over. As far as I knew, Sherry wasn’t pregnant, so I wasn’t raising a cuckoo bird’s egg, but I still felt like a cuckold.

The best case would have been that she was meeting a guy I didn’t know, someone she’d met at her gym or through a friend, a casual affair that had become more intense with time but which maybe just maybe was running out of steam – and which was never based in love. It’s not hard to understand the concept of a fling; we’ve all been tempted. You can recover from that kind of affair. With work and time, after you recognize the hurt and understand the reasons, you can recommit.

The worst case would have been that she was fucking my worst enemy. That would have been the kind of betrayal that says “I want to hurt you so badly you feel like the dirt I wipe off my shoe.” You can’t recover from that. The knife has been stuck in your back straight through to your heart. If it’s the worst case, you have to wonder whether your judgement is fatally flawed, whether you’re naturally attracted to vipers or if you were misled by this Delilah who cooed in your ear while conspiring to bring you down.

This was not the best case and it was not the worst case. This was the middle case, not a stranger and not an enemy. The middle case is tough because it includes two betrayals, that of your wife and that of the other guy. If the other guy is a golfing buddy or some Joe who’s just the husband of one of your wife’s friends, then his betrayal isn’t worth much. He’s just another shithead. If the other guy is your father or your brother, a close blood relative, then his betrayal may be worse than hers. A wife is not blood. I might beat the living hell out of my brother but in the end I’d probably stick with the blood and can the woman. You can replace a wife.

She was fucking my best friend. Right there on the security monitor, I could see the anticipation of the sex to come. She was fucking my best friend.

Tom was betraying our friendship with my wife. He was best man at my wedding and, at his wedding, I shared that job with his younger brother. I’d know Sherry for four and a half years, but I’d known Tom for twenty, since we were seven years old. He knew what Sherry meant to me. He knew what marriage and commitment and trust meant to me. That hurt.

My new friend, the desk clerk, understood. We shook hands, our friendship never to be diminished by petty misunderstandings and never to be enlarged by late night drinks and basketball. I walked across the street, got in my car and went to the driving range. I hit two large buckets of balls. By the middle of the second bucket, my mid-irons were drawing nicely. My woods were crisp. I crushed a 4-iron, absolutely crushed it. I held my follow through, watching the ball soar, enjoying the moment of perfection. Golf is a damned hard game, enlivened by acts of absolute clarity.

On the spur of the moment, I called Tom’s house. “Hey Peg. How you doing? That’s great. I’m on my way back a little early and was wondering if you guys would want to get together for dinner. When? Tonight, tomorrow, your call. Right . . . so why don’t we do it tonight? No, I think we should go out . . . OK. . . Sure. Seven at Ciro’s would be good. Yeah . . . Bye.” I’d crushed that call just like the 4-iron.

I called the house and left a message, “Honey, I’m going to get home early today, so I called Peg and arranged for us to meet them at Ciro’s at 7. I’ll call you on your cell.” I left the same message on her cell phone.

I got home at 6. Sherry was in the shower. Her gym bag was open on the floor. I couldn’t resist, so I went through it – nothing. I picked her panties out of the hamper and smoothed them out, looking for stains or sticky patches. Nothing.

“Hey baby,” I called through the bathroom door. “I have to shower too.”

“I’ll be out in a minute.”

The thought hit me: this might be the last time I can have sex with her before the shit hits the fan. Whatever happens next, things between us will definitely be different. I dropped my clothes, walked in, opened the shower door, stepped in and took her gently into my arms. “Baby, you feel so good,” I whispered in her ear.

She started to shrug me away so I grabbed her waist, taking charge. “We have time. Let’s sneak in a quickie so we’ll be thinking about it at dinner.” I put my hand on her left breast and squeezed it meaningfully. She unfroze and I began to kiss the back of her neck. I drew my knee up into her crack and pressed her against me. I massaged her buns with my right hand, then rubbed around to the opening between her thighs.

Sherry turned to me. I leaned her against the shower wall and bent over. I took her nipple in my mouth and sucked as my hand levered her pussy and vibrated her clit. We kissed, her lips both soft and rubbery, our mouths searching. She licked my teeth and nipped at my ear. I bit her neck and slid my teeth to her shoulder. Her left hand cupped my balls as her right dug into the back of my head.

I went to my knees and pressed my mouth to her clit. I tongued her, flicking the clit with the tip, pressing the broad flatness against her mound. She moaned and pulled at my hair. She tasted clean. I put her thighs over my shoulders and twisted my face back and forth, back and forth over her lips.

I pulled one of her legs off me. “Lie down,” I commanded. She spread her legs and I lay down on top of her. I pinched her nipple as we kissed again. Her mouth was opened as wide as possible, taking my tongue into her. I fucked her with two, then three fingers, drawing them up into her G-spot, running them around her opening. With my thumb, I made circles around her clit until she bucked up at me, gasping, grabbing at my wrist. The water landed on my back and splashed over us.

I wanted to make love to her, to make her feel my love for her, to make her know what I gave her, to make her come. She arched her back again. I went down between her legs again, the water pouring onto the back of my head and over her opened thighs. I blew and sucked water off her clit.

“I love you,” she cried.

That’s what I wanted to hear. I climbed up her body, running my tongue over her belly button, from breast to breast and back again, then over her collar bone until we were face to face. She looked at me, intense and passionate.

“I love you,” She said.

I pushed my cock into her. She bit at my shoulder, teasing the flesh, kissing my lips, pushing her nose against my cheek. She fucked up at me.

“God yes,” she cried.

“Oh, baby. You’re so good. Your pussy is so tight.”

“Give it to me. Give it to me.”

“You want it hard?”

“I want it really hard.”

I gave it to her hard and fast. It was a good fuck, a physical fuck. I slowed down. I rocked from side to side. I jammed it hard into her and them jammed it further, pushing her whole body with the thrust. She was wild with lust, moaning, grunting, unable to speak coherently.

I bit the edge of her ear and then stroked my cock into her, slapping my body against hers. I could feel the charge building in my groin, spreading to my cock. “I’m going to come,” I said.

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“Yes, come in me. Come in me. Come in me.”

I pumped it into her, clenched her ass hard and spewed into her pussy, spasming over and over.

We lay together. We kissed, our lips rubbery from the effort. Her hand drifted over my back, fingernails lightly scratching a possessive mark of satisfaction.

Sherry was breathing heavily, as though she’d run ten miles. She exhaled deeply and snuggled up into me, “That was really good. We should do this more often. I loved the way you came in me. I could feel you throbbing.” We kissed again.

I had little doubt after that scene that Sherry loved me. She was passionate, involved, in the moment. She had resisted a little, but had given herself completely. I remembered why I’d married her and no longer knew what I was going to do.


The main courses had arrived but I’d realized during the appetizers that I wasn’t hungry. My emotions were eating a hole in my belly. Tom wasn’t acting strange and neither was Sherry. The intimacy among the four of us was genuine. My wife, my best friend and my best friend’s wife. Sherry had her hand on my leg. She was being very affectionate. Every look at me was filled with closeness. She radiated contentment.

Tom was digging into his pasta. Sherry and Peg were eating and chatting. I stared at my chicken and listlessly pushed a piece of zucchini in a circle. The time is now. Now is the time. For what? For what?

“I have a question,” I said. “Something that’s been bothering me.” Sherry put her hand back in mine.

“Shoot,” Tom said.

“What would you do if you found out that your best friend was betraying you?” A brief moment of silence. “What would you do if your wife was cheating on you with your best friend?” More silence. “Seriously. If it happened to you, what would you do?”

I could feel Sherry’s hand freeze.

I continued as though everything were completely normal. “It’s happening to someone I know. He told me and it started me thinking. I mean, you’re my best friend. If you found out I was having an affair with Peg, what would you do? You know, would it hurt you more that it was me? Or would make excuses for me? Who would you blame?” I paused. “I’m just wondering.”

Witty repartee happens only in stories. Tom slowly shook his head. Sherry looked down at her plate. Peg was astonished.

I decided in that instant to drive the nail home. “I was wondering because you’ve been fucking Sherry and I was curious if I should beat the shit out of you or what.” I squeezed Sherry’s hand tightly. I turned to her, “And you my dear. Should I toss your cheating ass in the street or should I just file for divorce and go away peacefully?”

The lack of response killed them. I know Peg. She knew that Tom would come back at me in an instant if I were pulling his leg. If I were joking, he’d have said, “If I were you, I’d be grateful that Sherry was finally experiencing a real man” or something else, some comeback that showed we were buddies needling each other. He took too long to react and Peg knew. And a heartbeat later, Tom realized he’d blown it, that Peg had read his reaction.

He knew better than to cover. “We have to talk.” He started to say, “It’s not what you think,” but only got half the words out before Peg hit him hard in the face.

This was another one of those occasions when time slows down. I began to enjoy myself. I remembered when my school bus crashed into a garage and it seemed like the open black mouth had widened in stop motion. I remembered Tom and me hanging out in his bathroom talking about girls we liked. I saw us playing catch and fighting the Cole twins behind the oak tree. I heard endless discussions, all in an instant, about the best running back, how you unhooked a bra, whether it was better to be a Formula 1 driver or a movie star.

“You motherfucking bastard. You bastard. You goddamn, motherfucking bastard.” Peg hit him again, this time with both hands. She pushed at him and he cringed. I still held Sherry’s hand. She was frozen. Peg sprung out of the booth, grabbed her purse, spun on her heel and walked quickly out.

I was calm. “Do you mind picking up the tab?” I asked Tom. “You can have the leftovers.” I stood and turned to my wife. “Coming dear?” Sherry slid out of the booth and followed me to the car.

The first words Sherry said were, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“That’s nice. Are you sorry because you got caught? Sorry because you hurt me?” I got on a roll. “Sorry because you ruined our marriage? Sorry because you hurt one of your best friends? Sorry because you destroyed my oldest friendship? Sorry for what? What exactly are you sorry for?”

Sherry started to cry, not heavily but genuine tears. They rolled down her cheeks. I drove on. She started to speak, but I held up my hand to stop her. She put her hand to her forehead and closed her eyes. She was sobbing.

I stopped the car. “You can get out now,” I said. She looked out the window. I was in front of her parents’ house.

“No.” She almost moaned the word.

“Out. Out or I’ll throw you out.” I tapped on the steering wheel. I suddenly shouted, “Get out!” I didn’t look at her as I drove away.

My plan when I got home was to pour myself a stiff drink and watch TV until I fell asleep. Instead I snapped. I opened Sherry’s closet and stared at her clothes. I started tearing the hangars off the rod, clawing at the buttons, trying to rip the seams apart. I went into the kitchen and came back with a chef’s knife and a large glass of Dewar’s. I stabbed at her clothes, yanking the knife down through the fabric, cutting, tearing.

I got drunk. I built a fire in the fireplace and threw our wedding album into it. I scooped an armload of her underwear and tossed each piece into the flames, watching each one light up. Then I sat in my armchair and watched a classic football game on ESPN until I fell asleep.

These were the painful hours. That stretch of time when every moment is freighted with significance, none of it good. I was crushed. I felt the pull of the dark side. I could now understand why people killed themselves, why jealous lovers killed the ones they loved. I could see that on the other side of love lies anger which runs at least as deep.

The morning brought calm. The house was clean except for the bedroom, where shreds of Sherry’s clothes littered the floor around her closet. I left those where they lay. In the fireplace, I could see the charred spine of our wedding album, straps and clasps from burnt bras, a tie from a nightgown. My mind was empty, no longer in a rage.

I took a shower. As the water ran over me, I remembered making love to Sherry the night before. It hit me that my life was changed forever. I wondered why that didn’t matter to me more.

“What are you going to do?” can be a little or a big question. My way of functioning is to turn the big questions, the ones that aren’t answerable, into smaller questions, cutting them into bites I can manage. Do I get back with Sherry? Big question. When or how do I see Sherry? Little question. What do I do about Tom? Big question. When do I see Tom? Little question.

I called Tom’s cell phone. He answered, which surprised me because I’m sure he could see the number on his display.

“I’m really sorry,” he said.

“Explain it.”

“It just happened. Flirting, nothing more than that, and then one day I ran into her at the mall and then I stopped by your place and it just happened.”

“How long? I know how long. I just want you to verify.”

“Almost five months.” I could hear him wanting to say more so I waited. “We never wanted you to know. Or Peg. We couldn’t stop.”

At that moment, I knew exactly what I was going do. “I never want to see you again. Our friendship is over. I don’t give a fuck what happens between you and Peg. You’re completely out of my life. You don’t exist. You’re gone. Goodbye.” And I hung up.

At the moment Tom spoke, when he told me in all sincerity that he never wanted to hurt me, I knew he meant it, that he had succumbed to weakness, that he had gone down the wrong road in the dark. Fuck that. Fuck that. Fuck a friend who fucks over a friend. He ratted me out. He ran away when my life was in danger. He watched me drown without calling for help.

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You think regret matters? You think Fredo didn’t regret selling out Michael? I’ll fucking bet Judas regretted too. You think you get forgiven because I’m not your enemy, because I’m not one of the guys you’re supposed to fuck? You can’t sell out your enemies. You can’t fuck over your enemies. You can’t betray your enemies. You were my best friend and you fucked my wife so fuck you. You betrayed me. You sold me out. Fuck you forever, you fucking bastard. You’re nothing to me now.

I drove to Sherry’s parents. I didn’t call first. Her dad answered the door. He looked sad and a little afraid.

“How you doing?” I asked. He stepped on to the porch, pulling the door most of the way closed. He sighed.

“She told us. You know that she loves you. You know that, don’t you? I can see you know that.” He shook his head again. “What a stupid bitch. Can you believe I’m calling my daughter a bitch? Stupid. She’s stupid. I can’t believe I’m saying this about my own daughter, but stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid.”

I got the point. He sounded disorganized but he knew exactly what he was saying: Sherry made a mistake, a big mistake, but just a mistake. With work and time, we could get past it. Bitch. Stupid. Call her names but get over it.

“You going to let me in?”

“The idiot is in the kitchen.”

I didn’t know what I was going to say until I sat down at the kitchen table. Sherry was pale, her eyes puffy. Her mother stood off to the side. Her father sipped from a glass of water.

I drummed my fingers on my knee for a few seconds. “Here’s what I’m going to do.” Sherry nodded. “I’m going to divorce you. Period. I’m not even going to discuss saving this marriage.” Sherry looked like I’d felt the day before.

“You betrayed me. You betrayed our marriage. You betrayed what I thought you were as a person. I don’t want to be married to you.” She gulped and started to cry.

I wasn’t moved.

“You’ve hurt me beyond measure. I don’t think you’ll ever understand what you’ve done to me. I know you love me. Do you hear me? I know you love me. That’s why I’m divorcing you. Because I want to hurt you. I want to hurt you bad. You love me. You lost me. You live with that.”

She made an animal noise. It’s frightening how similar the noises we make in pain are to those we make in pleasure.

“Here’s what I’m going to do. You listening?” Sherry didn’t respond. “You listening?” She bowed her head as yes. “After the divorce is final, after the divorce is final and not a minute before . . . if you’re a good girl, we can start seeing each other. ” Sherry looked at me, her face a mask of sorrow and pain.

“I fell in love with you once. I’ll give you the chance to make me fall in love with you again. I’m not going back. This marriage is over. It’s history. You want me, then you have to catch me all over again. That’s the only way I’ll have anything to do with you.”

Sherry nodded. She bit her lip. He mouth formed the word, “Yes.”

“I’m through with Tom. He was my friend and he fucked me over. That doesn’t get forgiven. If you see him, if you talk to him, then you’re with him and not with me. That’s the way it is. Friends don’t fuck over their friends. He’s not my friend.”

I barely spoke with Sherry during the divorce. We sold the condo and Sherry moved in with her folks while I got an apartment. I saw her father three or four times. We kept it light. I didn’t ask about Sherry, but our meetings sent the message that the deal was still on. With a raised eyebrow, he mentioned my destruction of her clothes. I told him she was lucky she wasn’t there. He understood. I always liked him.

The divorce was final in four months, in slightly less time than the length of Sherry’s affair with Tom. Peg called me twice in the days after the restaurant scene. I waited outside her house until I saw her drive away and then left a message that Tom was out of my life forever and that meant she was out of it too. I told Peg I was divorcing Sherry and that I would consider starting fresh with Sherry only if she stayed away from both Tom and her. She didn’t call again. I heard through friends they were in counseling.

I didn’t want to be around when the divorce became final, so I went on an adventure vacation hiking and climbing in Chile. Had a great time. The physical effort completely cleared out my mind. Sherry left a message on my work voicemail, asking if we could talk. I called her from the taxi taking me home from the airport.

“Hey,” I said. “You still interested in doing this?” The whole cheating and divorce experience had made me more direct.

“I was wondering if you were going to call.”

“I just got back in town. Are we doing this or what?”

“Can we talk?”

“When? Where? What are you doing this afternoon? You want to meet for a drink. Anywhere but Ciro’s.”

She was waiting in a booth, a glass of water in front of her. I sat down. We looked at each other. I nodded.

I didn’t waste words. “Are we going to feel each other out? Is there something you want to say? Do you want to do this?”

“I want to do this.”

“Which is what? What do you want to do?”

“You don’t give me much room, do you?” I thought she might lose it. She closed her eyes for a moment. “Am I supposed to say I’m sorry. You tell me what I’m supposed to do.”

I pulled on the end of my nose, smiled to myself, leaned forward and said, “You’re supposed to make me fall in love with you. You did it once. That’s both good and bad. I mean . . . I know most of your gimmicks, so you may have to work a little harder, but then again you know a lot of what I like so you sort of have a leg up.” I looked at her, the challenge as obvious in my eyes as in my words.

With absolute sincerity, she said, “How do I make you trust me?”

“Wow,” I pressed my lips together as though deep in thought. “Wow. This is our first date. Trust is something you build. You have to earn trust.” I played my best card. “I know you had some cheating issues in the past and, well to be honest, I have some issues with being cheated on . . . but you know,” I lifted my hand and let it flop on the table, “it’s funny how life works. You see how it goes.”

Sherry was quiet. I could see her thinking. I waited.

“I’m not as easy as you may have heard,” she said.

“Really? I heard you were pretty much a sure thing.”

“No,” she shook her head. “I’m looking for a substantial relationship. If you just want sex, I’m not the right girl.”

I raised my eyebrow. She cocked her head, holding her water glass with both hands.

“Do you like what I’m wearing?” She lifted one arm to indicate her blouse and skirt. “I just got it. My ex-husband cut all my clothes to pieces. I had to buy a whole new wardrobe.”

“Very nice. It looks good on you. You ex sounds like a real jerk.””

Her eyes narrowed slightly. “I guess he didn’t like my clothes.” She leaned toward me. “You know, there was one good thing about him.”

“Just one?”

“More than one, but this one was very important.”

And what would that be?” I leaned forward.

“He was an excellent kisser.” We were almost touching. “I couldn’t be interested in any guy if he couldn’t kiss at least as well.” She tilted her head. We were inches apart. “I just couldn’t . . . ”

The words hung in space as our lips met, as our mouths joined, as our tongues touched. A slow, gentle, loving kiss. A good first date kiss.

We lingered in the space we shared, then Sherry leaned back and stretched. I did the same. She smiled as her eyes twinkled. “This,” she said, “is going to be so much fun.”


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