Everything was supposed to be perfect. I'd done everything right, the right wine, the right cheese. I'd cooked for Christ's sake. When was the last time I'd done that? Everything was going so well, too. She seemed to be in a good mood for the first time in months. Really relaxed. Like things were on a high.
I suppose, for her, they were. How was I to know that two days off after fifteen years was too little, too late? How could I have known she was looking for something more in the bedroom. It wasn't like she'd ever told me, just had the same sex every Tuesday and Friday. It was satisfying for me.
She was my everything. I was sure I'd told her that. Didn't I tell her I loved her every night before we went to sleep? Didn't I kiss her good morning? Didn't I thank her for feeding me, cleaning up after me, raising our children.
I did, didn't I? I was sure I had. I'd been eager when she'd suggested joining a yoga class, a book club, a knitting circle. I was happy she had friends and activities that made her happy. I didn't take the subtle hint that they were escapes from me.
"Fuck off, ants." I brushed them aside and emptied the second bottle of wine. Everything was supposed to be perfect. And her I sat. Perfectly alone.
Be sure to read all the other Thrills by popping over to the blog. I hope they are all less depressing than mine.