“Fuck yeah!” I screamed into my cell phone as I headed west on I-70 about two hours short of Columbus, OH, on a beautiful, sunny July Sunday.

I had to scream into the phone: I was cruising down the road at 70 miles per hour with both windows down and the sunroof open. The car sounded like a wind machine, although the engine was purring and it was driving as beautifully as a car costing many more dollars.

It was a 1996 Ford Probe, one of the greatest cars for the money Detroit has ever produced, and it was mine -- a retirement gift from my wife that I had just picked up in Washington DC the day before.

“This is fucking amazing!” I yelled to my wife, Traci. “This might be the greatest gift anyone has ever given me!”

“I’m glad you like it and are having fun. Just don’t have too much fun and wind up with a big speeding ticket. I’m not paying for those,” she said cheerfully.

“Not a problem, Babe! I’m only 10 over the speed limit, and the road is pretty wide open! I think I’m golden!”

“OK, then, I will see you tomorrow evening,” she said before ringing off.

I tossed my phone on the empty passenger seat, and then screamed at no one in particular.

“Woooooo-hoooooo!!!!!”

I had been on the road for about five hours, and the game plan was to stop at Columbus, grab supper and then spend the night. I already had a reservation for a hotel. At 63, I didn’t figure I would be up to doing a 12-hour drive in one day, the way I would have at 35, and maybe even 45. If Traci was with me, we would have split the driving and probably done in it one day, but for this one special trip, I was on my own.

I had been a “Probe guy” from the moment I test-drove one back in 1988. Most dealerships in my area had gotten one as an introductory model to kick off its launch as the newest Ford for the 1989 model year. I loved the look as soon as I saw it, but I waited a week to go into the near-by Ford dealership to take a test drive. It was love at first drive. Mazda made the original Probe engine, and it was both quick and fast, got great mileage and had really touchy, race-car type handling. Move the steering wheel a nick, and the car moved a foot on the road. It was amazing!

I had driven the original one I bought for 11 years, then went another 11 with the second one. I bought the second one in 1997, the last model year, and went almost 220,000 miles before some idiot drove into me and wrecked it. I tried buying a few off eBay and places like that, but couldn’t get it done. So for the last two years I moped about driving what I called “just another car.”

I retired last week after working 40 years in the insurance business as one of those faceless, nameless people in a cubicle. It was mostly mind-numbing work but it paid well, as was shown by the fact I was retiring a couple of years ahead of turning 65.

They had a little ceremony for me at the office, to which my wife was invited. Several of my co-workers gave me small going-away gifts, then my wife stepped forward and dangled a car key in front of my face: it was one of my old Probe keys, and she had attached a note to it. Seems she and my son-in-law in Washington, DC, had been looking for a Probe for me, and found one in very clean shape with only 100,000 miles on it just outside of the capital.

The deal for the weekend was that I flew into DC and spent a day and half with the kids and grandkids, then after lunch on Sunday I was going to drive about seven hours to Columbus, spend the night, and then drive the rest of the way after breakfast on Monday, getting home early afternoon.

At first I wondered why Traci had booked a hotel for Sunday because I thought she was coming with me and we’d drive straight through, but she told me this trip I was solo so I could get all the driving and become acquainted with my new toy: a black GT Turbo. Ford had switched to making the Probe engines in 1990, and the only way they could get to car to move as good as the Mazda engine was to put a turbocharged V6 in it. And it did scream, but it no longer was near as good on mileage as the Mazda 4-cylinder.

Much of the first part of the drive was in the mountains of West Virginia, which is always a lot of fun but can be dangerous. You’ve got two or three lanes of traffic, a 70 MPH speed limit which everybody ignores, large semis, curves, and everybody jumping in and out of lanes. It can look like pure craziness, and it’s not for the faint of heart. I know from having two previous Probes that this car can do everything I ask, and for me the mountains are crazy fun. But after that it’s pretty much straight highway, which is kind of boring since I really can’t open it up like I’d like. Most of the time the speed limit is 60 or 65, which means I’d be doing 70 or 75, but even then, you have to be careful for the cops, particularly in Ohio.

I pulled into a gas station soon after I talked to Traci, and after gassing I stopped in the convenience store to get a pop. The kid working the counter looked at me, then looked at the car.

“That’s sure beautiful, mister. That’s a Probe, right?”

I was impressed with the kid’s knowledge. He wasn’t even born when they stopped making the car.

“Yes, it is,” I answered proudly, standing up completely to my 5-11 and a shade height. “Retirement gift I picked up in DC yesterday. Heading back to Illinois.”

Wow, she sure is nice.”

I nodded at the youngster and swaggered -- yes, swaggered -- back to my car. Just for his sake, I held on the clutch for a bit, then dropped it into gear and chirped the tires, not necessarily an easy thing to do with a front-wheel drive car.

I replayed the weekend in my head as I drove. Spent quality time with my daughter and her husband and my only grandchild. Now that I’m retired, I vowed in my head to see that little guy a lot more in person. Seeing him on Facetime was nice, but live in person is so much better.

I passed a car full of what appeared to be teenage girls. They honked the horn at me in greeting as I sped by, my long gray hair flying in the breeze. I took a quick look as I went by, and the one sitting behind the driver’s seat kind of reminded me of my Traci at that age: long blonde hair, big boobs, and, I think, blue eyes. I might have been a little distracted by her breasts to get a real good look at her eye color.

Ah, my Traci, the founder of this feast, so to speak. Not quite what she was when I first met her at 19, but still a damn fine-looking woman for 63. Yes, she might be 20 pounds over her fighting weight, and I’m sure the blonde hair comes more from a bottle than occurs naturally, but she still turns heads of our contemporaries, and some a bit younger. I thought about seeing her out last fall at a museum opening, being a little more daring by going braless in a somewhat lowcut pink sweater, with her nipples saluting for most of the day. I know she was somewhat uncomfortable being dressed that way in public, but I know she did it because she knows I absolutely love that look. And to show my appreciation, I licked her almost literally into a coma that night in bed. She’s still incredibly responsive although I now have to use lube on her to keep from making her sore, but she bucked and screamed her way through a dozen orgasms before she finally tapped out.

I met Traci as a sophomore at Indiana State. She had moved into the dorm I had live in for two years. I was outside playing Frisbee with some guys on my floor when she and her parents pulled up to move her in. I took one look at her and was gone, as evidenced by one of the guys bouncing a throw off the side of my head while I stood gawking. I stopped playing at that point, went over to her and her family and asked if they needed any help. Her dad took one look at my long, curly hair, sort of sneered, and gave me a polite “no thanks.” I took the hint and walked away.

One week later I saw her in the dorm and introduced myself. I could tell she was less than enthusiastic about meeting me, so I quickly extricated myself from the situation and left.

Two weeks later I saw her walking hand-in-hand with a guy who lived two floors up from me in the dorm. He looked like a geek with a short bristly mustache. Obviously I wasn’t her type. I didn’t lose any sleep over it.

I’d see her around the dorm from time to time and make polite small-talk. Since she wasn’t in my circle of friends, I had no real reason to talk to her. She wasn’t interested, and I wasn’t going to waste a minute of my time chasing her. I wasn’t a Romeo by anybody’s standards, but I did OK with the girls and didn’t need to put up with anybody’s attitude.

Two years later she turned up at a party some friends were throwing before classes started. Mr. Bristly Mustache had graduated, and she was by herself. I figured I could give it one more shot, and if I got rejection or attitude I’d move on. No harm, no foul.

Traci was a business major in an age where not a lot of women were. Most of the business majors on my floor thought she was a pushy bitch, although they couldn’t quite explain why that thought that since she didn’t talk much. Knowing some of those guys, I figured they were just intimidated by her intelligence and her unwillingness to stay with the status quo in the business world.

I wasn’t expecting a lot when I went over to her, but apparently being alone in a roomful of people was not her strong suit, because she looked more than a little edgy when I approached. You would have thought I threw a drowning person an anvil when I asked how she was doing.

“Do you always drink two beers at a time,” she sniped at me, looking at the cups I was holding in each hand. I was about to give her a smart-ass answer back, when for some reason, I decided to hold back.

“Pretty much, yeah,” I answered. “I’m pretty much ambidextrous, so I don’t like to play favorites.”

She shook her head slightly and I started to turn away, but before I could step away from this Angel of Death she put her left hand on my right forearm to stop me, and stepped into my personal space. I looked down at her hand in complete surprise. At just 5-1, I towered over her. She got up on her tiptoes, took a handful of curls hanging down on each shoulder and pulled my face down to hers before giving me a soft, sensual little kiss on my lips.

When she stepped back and got down off of her toes, I just stared into those soft blue eyes. I then leaned into her, wrapped by forearms around her and gave her back a soft, sensuous kiss -- all without spilling a drop of beer. We left the party together, and spent the next two hours talking -- just talking -- in a dimly lit corner of the dorm lounge. We’ve been together ever since, getting married soon after graduating. Her parents weren’t thrilled with her choice, but I absolutely didn’t give a fuck what they thought.

We both got good jobs after graduating, and things were good. Sex was varied and plentiful, although we did slow down to almost every night from the twice every day we were doing at school. I had learned how to please a woman in multiple ways, and Traci certainly didn’t lack for attention. The woman just had to give me a smile, a certain look, a hair flip, and I would be doing my damndest to make sure that she was going to orgasm multiple times. I most always was successful.

Allison came along three years after we were married. She was the light in both of our eyes, and there were times when we fought to see which one of us was going to hold her. And it got even worse when we visited either of the grandparents’ houses. I’m pretty sure the kid’s feet didn’t touch the ground for the first two years of her life at either grandparents’ homes.

I smiled at the memory of those years, and when I looked up I was passing the first off-ramp for Columbus. Fuck it. I wanted to keep driving, and I wanted to get home to my Traci. I could afford to blow off the room rental. I pulled over to the side of the highway and called the hotel to release my room. I thought about calling Traci, too, but decided instead to surprise her by getting home sometime in the middle of the night and crawling into bed with her. There’s nothing better than surprised to see you sex in the middle of the night.

Two hours past Columbus I hit one of the rest stop restaurants. While there, I called Traci, telling her I was just calling from my hotel room to see how she was doing. She obviously had put her phone down and had to run to get it, because when she picked up she seemed a little out of breath.

“Hey, save some of that breath for me for tomorrow,” I said as she picked up.

“Of course, Sweetie,” she answered. “You know I can’t wait to get your hard dick stuffed inside of me.”

That was all it took for her to get me hard. We talked for a few more minutes, then I told her I would see her tomorrow afternoon.

“Mmmm,” was all she said.

I quickly finished my dinner and headed back out on the road after getting another tank of gas. I had closed the windows and the sunroof when nightfall came, so I no longer had the rush of the wind in my ears. The Probe was performing brilliantly. I again smiled when I thought of my wife and my son-in-law really pulling one over on me. Thirty-nine wonderful years -- where had that time gone?

I pulled into Normal around 1:30 a.m., and got to my house about 1:45. I had parked my Ford Taurus on the street, so I could pull my new toy inside the garage. I had the garage remote with me and started slowly up the driveway to find ... somebody else’s car in my garage spot, right next to my wife’s car.

For a quick second there I thought I was having a heart attack as I felt shooting pains going down my limbs and I started to sweat profusely. I was then able to take a deep breath in and out, and the pains went away. Unfortunately, the other car didn’t, and it was all I could do to get a second clear thought to run through my brain.

The last thing I remember for a few minutes was shutting the Probe off. I just sat there in shock and looked at the other car, some kind of a Mercedes. Finally, I went into the garage, opened the car’s passenger door and found the registration in the glove box. The car was registered to Ralph Pruitt, who up until six months ago when she retired was Traci’s boss for the last 10 years. Shitfuck.

My first thought at this point was to sneak into the house, grab my Sig Sauer 9mm and kill both of them. Then I thought about just wounding them. Eventually I came to the conclusion that going to jail for hurting or killing them wasn’t a wise move.

I quietly entered the house. It was almost eerily quiet as I crept up the stairs to the master bedroom. The door was locked as usual, so I very quietly unlocked it and entered, and there, in my very own bed, slept Traci and Ralph Pruitt, with my wife cuddled in to his right shoulder and his right arm curled around her, very similar to how Traci and I often slept, especially after a night of good sex. The familiarity of the position told me that this wasn’t a one-off for them.

I’ve got to give a commercial here for the iPhone 11 night mode feature. The two shots I took of them in the very low light of the room turned out beautifully.

After putting away my phone, I quietly grabbed enough clothing for several days from my drawers and closet. I found a piece of luggage in the hall closet and threw my stuff in there. I also went back for my gun, then I left. Coming back through the garage, I unfolded my knife and put big gashes into all four of his tires and all four of Traci’s. I got into my Probe, drove to a spot down the street and watched.

Being retired, Traci didn’t have to get up early, but Ralph not only had to go to work, he had to be out of my house early enough not to be seen by my neighbors. I wasn’t surprised then when the garage door went up at 5:07 a.m. I also wasn’t surprised when Ralph’s car didn’t roll out of the garage. Since all four tires were flat, the car was sitting fairly level, and unless he was specifically looking for something on the floor, Ralph wouldn’t have seen the cut tires. His car sensors, however, would have alerted him immediately upon his starting up.

I couldn’t see what was happening in the garage from where I was parked, but at about 8:30 a truck from Fred’s Tire Barn showed up, carrying eight new tires. I sarcastically wondered if Ralph paid for Traci’s tires or made her pay. I also wondered if the pair was going to be stupid enough to call the police. Although they had no way of knowing that I did the damage, calling the cops still would have meant a lot of questions, and supposedly I was due home in the early afternoon.

After Ralph finally left at about 10, I suppose Traci went into scramble mode to get the bed linens changed and the house completely de-Ralphed. I left and hit the road on the way to Omaha, NB, figuring it was time to visit a longtime friend who lived there.

Traci finally called when I didn’t show up at 3.

“Yeah,” I answered curtly, holding the phone to my ear. Being an older car, the Probe didn’t have Bluetooth and couldn’t do hands-free. I made a mental note to get that corrected in the near future.

“Where are you? You’re supposed to be home,” she said in a tentative voice.

“I’m in the middle of Iowa on I-80, cruising along on the way to Spence’s,” I replied blandly.

“What the hell are you doing in Iowa? I know you’re having fun driving, but are you more in love with that car than me?”

“At this moment, yes,” I answered truthfully. I hung up, pulled over to the side of the road and then texted her a photo of herself and Ralph sleeping in our bed.

I didn’t get a return phone call or text. I pulled back on the highway and put my right foot into it.

Spencer and Marianne put up with my churlishness for three days after I filled them in on what had transpired. It was good to be among old friends in my time of need. I didn’t say too much for the visit after my initial outpouring, but with old friends you don’t necessarily have to use words to express love and support. As I was getting ready to leave, Marianne gave me a big hug, and quietly whispered into my ear that she and Spence always had room for me, no matter what happened.

This trip home didn’t have the thrill of my last drive. I don’t think I ever got the Probe over the speed limit as I needed the usual six-plus hours of normal drive time to grieve and think. I was grieving for my marriage, because at this point I was pretty sure that we weren’t going to be together for a 40th celebration.

I guess I had all the usual questions running through my head: what had I done wrong; was I not satisfying Traci sexually; was this guy so much bigger and better than me; and what was life going to look like without Traci by my side after all these years. Yeah, I even briefly thought about forgiving her and staying married -- if she even wanted that, but I quickly dismissed that idea. I knew in my heart I’d never be able to get the sight of the two of them sleeping together in our bed out of my head. And if you can’t forget, than you really haven’t forgiven. I’d eventually twist myself into a knot and go through the rest of my life a bitter, old man ... as opposed to divorcing her and going through life as ... a bitter, old man.

“Aaarrrggghhh!!!” I yelled to myself.

Traci’s Lincoln was alone in the garage this time when I sent the door up by remote. I grabbed my bags out of the trunk and walked inside to see Traci sitting curled up on the family room sofa, a glass of red wine on the table by her left hand. No time like the present, so I opened the fridge, grabbed a Corona and plopped down into my recliner. We looked each other directly in the eyes. I could see tears starting to well up.

I put my right hand up, palm out, making a stopping motion. She looked distressed and sat up a little straighter, but didn’t start crying.

“Please don’t,” I started. “You know I hate when you do that ‘poor me’ crying shit, and in this case, if there’s anyone who should be crying, it should be me. How could you do this ... to us, to me! Thirty-nine years gone ... poof! ... in a puff of smoke.

“I’m pretty sure that some of it was real, maybe the first 10 or 20 years. When exactly did you fall out of love with me?”

“I’ve never fallen out of love with you, Andy,” she replied softly. “I love you more than anything right now, but I’ve hurt you beyond belief ... and I don’t know what I can do to make that pain go away.”

“You might think you still love me, and maybe you still do somewhat, but it’s not with the same intensity it once was ... or you never could have done this to me. Never.

“So tell me, how long has this been going on, and don’t insult me by telling me this was a one-off. The way you two were sleeping together tells me that this has happened more than just a few times ... Are there others? Have you slept with any of our friends?”

Her facial expression shifted from scared to angry when I asked my last question. I wondered if I came close to the truth.

“How dare you ask if I’ve slept with any of our friends like I’m some kind of a slut...”

“Looks like the shoe fits, Babe,” I interrupted.

She harrumphed at that and shut up. She eyed me warily, almost as if she was afraid I was going to hit her. She knows me way better than that, and if she was truly thinking logically she knows I would never strike her, despite what emotion my face was showing.

“It’s only been the one...”

She got halfway there, and then figured I knew too much and would probably catch her in the lie. When in deep, sometimes the truth is the only path to take.

“He’s been the only one,” she corrected herself. “It’s been going on for quite a while, maybe five or six years.”

I felt dizzy. I know my eyebrows shot up when she gave the timeframe.

“Once ... sometimes twice a week once we got going good, and usually for several nights when you were out of town on a business trip.”

She said it so matter-of-factly, with no emotion, just like she was answering a question about math or history. Once or twice a week, plus trips, for five or six years. Goddamn, I am one Grade A fucking idiot, or the most trusting guy on the planet.

“It’s not like you made it hard to do,” she continued. “You trusted me completely, so all I had to do was give you a reasonable excuse to account for my time.”

“Well, pardon me for completely trusting my wife of more than 30 years!” I snarked, tipping back my head and pouring the remaining beer in the bottle down my throat.

I got up to get another beer and noticed her glass was empty, too.

“Another,” I said.

“Yes, please,” she answered spritely.

I got a new beer for me and a wine refill for her and sat back down, leaning forward in my chair.

“Why didn’t you just tell me you were unhappy. I could have made changes. At the very least we could have at least divorced somewhat amicably,” I said.

“But I’m not unhappy, and I don’t want a divorce,” she said in that bland tone. “I already told you, ‘I love you,’ and I really meant that. I want us to grow old together.”

I’m sure my face told her I was more than a little confused.

“Listen, Alice. This isn’t Wonderland. You don’t get to cheat on me with a lover for years, then have me whisk you off to Foreverland on my white horse. Real life, at least in my world, doesn’t work that way.”

“And that’s why we’re having this conversation, Andrew,” she said, calling me by my formal name, the name only she uses when she’s annoyed or pissed off at me.

“You’re a smart guy, and there’s no reason we can’t come to some sort of a solution to this, even if it means I have to give up Ralph. I’m serious, Andy. I love you, and only you. What Ralph and I have is purely physical. I guess to use the cliché, you can say it is just sex ... very good sex, I have to admit ... but still just sex. What you and I have goes so much deeper. Why would you want to end it at this point?”

I sat there flabbergasted, gobsmacked, and several more adverbs that escaped me at the moment. Could she really be this detached to watch she’s been doing? Who stole my wife’s soul when I wasn’t looking?

“Wait just a fucking minute here,” I rasped. “In your mind, you actually think there’s a chance I would let you keep fucking Ralph?”

“You make it sound so cheap when you say it like that, Andy!” she responded angrily.

“That’s because it is so cheap!” I responded right back.

“What happened to the sweet woman I married 39 years ago, who vowed to be faithful to me ‘til death do us part?’

“Traci, you’ve been cheating on me ... CHEATING ON ME ... for five or six years, and you don’t see it as a big problem? Really? What happened to you? What’s going on, Babe?”

She took a sip of her wine, and I looked at her hard. My God, I had been blessed. She’s 63, doesn’t look a day over 53, has the body of a 43-year-old, and the sex drive of a 33-year-old. And therein lay the problem, I was about to find out.

“Remember a few years after I finished menopause several years back, when you noticed that I seemed to have gained back a lot of my ... sexual sensitivity ... and I started having more intense orgasms?”

I nodded. We both were amazed at her “rejuvenation,” if you will, and have been enjoying it tremendously. Her doctor even had a term for it, which of course I couldn’t remember, but said that about 10 percent of women experience this late in life. Of course as their husbands are hitting their sexual slide, nothing often comes of this, but when Traci started experiencing it, I went to my doctor and get some pharmaceutical help so I could keep up and we could both enjoy these years. And our sex life has been pretty damn good considering we aren’t kids anymore.

“Well around this time Ralph had really been laying on it thick, saying that I was glowing and had a new vitality. By this point we had been working together for about four years, and had become pretty close friends. We even started to flirt back and forth, nothing serious to start, but it felt really good to know that a man could find me attractive and want to flirt with me at that age.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “I’ve always told you that you were an extremely sexy woman, and I’ve almost always been after you trying to get you into bed. Didn’t that count for anything?”

“You’re my husband. You’re supposed to say those things,” she noted. “This was a different man, a friend, who seemed to have an interest in me, and truthfully ... it was heady ... and very stimulating. It was probably a good thing I need lube to really get juicy these days, or else I might have been leaving wet spots where I sat when Ralph started talking to me like that.

“A couple of months later, you had to take a short business trip to Houston, I think, over a weekend, and I’m not sure why exactly, but I invited Ralph over to dinner on that Saturday night. One thing led to another, and I took him upstairs and we had sex for the first time. It was wonderful and very exciting. I knew in my head that some of the excitement was because it was wrong and he was new and different for me, but it was still a special experience. Later we had sex a second time -- we actually made love that time -- and then we slept for several hours before he went home.

“When he came here, we always pulled his car in the garage, and he always left early in the morning so he wouldn’t be seen by the neighbors. We always tried to be respectful.”

I snorted at that.

“Respectful to who -- the neighbors? Because it certainly wasn’t trying to be respectful to me. Man’s over here fucking my wife in my bed, and you’re telling me you’re trying to be respectful.”

She shifted uncomfortably in her spot and took another sip of her wine.

“I have to admit I was surprised that I didn’t wake up feeling guilty for what I had done. I didn’t really feel guilty until you came home that night. I kind of avoided you for a few days there, wondering if you could see the guilt on my skin, like a layer of dirt. But since you didn’t know, and in reality I hadn’t taken anything of yours and given it to him, I stopped even feeling guilty. So going back for a second time, then a third, etc. was almost easy. I just had to make sure not to do anything stupid to hurt you.”

“But you did take something of mine and gave it to him,” I noted. “Although ultimately it’s your body to do with as you please, you gave him the fidelity you vowed was only mine. I took our vows completely serious more than 39 years ago, never thinking there was an expiration date on them. I guess it must have been in the fine print somewhere.”

“You’re really making way too much of this, Andy. Have you thought this out? What would either of us gain if we split up? Life in a Senior apartment somewhere ... alone. What sense does that make. I love you, Andy, and even though you’re pissed at me right now, I know you love me, too. If you don’t want me to see Ralph anymore, I can abide by that.”

I could feel my blood pressure rising with my anger. I think we’re talking about whether we’re going to stay together, and she thinks we’re talking about whether I will put up with her keeping Ralph as her lover. Unfuckingbelievable!