Infidelity - Julie Farrar

It starts with the little things. He’s gone for a few days and you rush to the phone to make that call – thin crust pizza with sausage and pepperoni – none of the vegetables he usually wants.

It tugs at your conscious just a bit when you feel so good to be on the road without him. This isn’t a “girls’ weekend”; you and only you wanted to travel out of town to the quilt exhibit. What does it mean when you hit the road alone and your endorphins start jumping? The entire time you’re trailing in and out of the antique stores, stopping at local diners to eat all the fried food you can handle, you never once consider calling home to check in.

There is the dark-haired waiter at the café who lingers a little longer than necessary at your table. He seems unusually interested in your opinion on the weather and you suddenly find the subject immensely important. You put aside the book you had brought to read during lunch. The banter as he passes your table while serving others reaches that point that you know he plays soccer at the park on Sundays at 3 p.m. Of course you’re not going, but you know you’d be welcome if you did.

You imagine on some days what it would be like to have the house completely to yourself, to never have to compromise, to never ask him what he wants for dinner. You imagine a life that fully belongs to you. You ask yourself one day, hypothetically, if you would ever remarry if you were in that position. Perhaps you’d sell everything and buy a home in France – on your own.

Your thoughts (only your thoughts) stray. He’s done nothing but be your husband for over two decades. He doesn’t deserve the disloyalty of a restless mind.