We had dated all through high school. Everybody had assumed that we would wind up together: picket fence, 2-point-whatever children, dog, suburbs, yadda, yadda, yadda.

We had indeed married once we had graduated from high school. We went to college together, where I found I wanted to be an RN, and she learned that she wanted to be an accountant.

Well, I* thought she had wanted to be an accountant. As it turned out, while I was in clinicals, and at the library studying and writing care plans, she* had learned that she wanted a very active, and very varied, sex life. Indeed, I subsequently learned that she wanted more sex than I could provide, since clinicals and late nights studying sort of, oh, I don’t know, took most of my attention and most of my waking hours and most of my energy.

She never had broached the idea of including others in our love life. Looking back on it now, I would have absolutely not gone along with it: she might even have known, might have even cared, back then, what my answer would have been.

But, we never had that chat. What we did have, was an awakening of sorts, an unveiling.

One day, in my junior year, clinicals were released early for some reason: whatever that reason might have been, was completely erased by what I stumbled into, once I got home unexpectedly.

Arriving home, I unlocked the apartment door, and turned to close it behind me. I settled my books and miscellaneous crap onto the kitchen table. As I turned, I stumbled over somebody’s shoes.

I shouldn’t have stumbled over anybody’s shoes, since Annie and I left our shoes next to the door, and out of the way. Once I recovered from my stumble, I saw clothing strewn about the living room. THAT was when I heard the sounds coming from our bedroom.

The sounds were of a woman having a very good time. I soon discovered that that woman, having that very good time, was my “darling wife”, and she was having a very good time, of the sort that we each had sworn before God and our families, we would only have with each other, “forsaking all others”.

From the knot of naked guys clustered about our bed, it was painfully clear that she had decided that she was not about to “forsake all others”. Indeed, she appeared to be reveling in several others, and, from all appearances, they were reveling in her, as well.

I do not know what the sound I had made, that disclosed my presence, but it appeared to be effective.

The cluster, unclustered, clothing was gathered, and a sheepish conga line of infidelity shuffled out of my door.

That left me and one Mark One, Mod Two, naked, and very semen covered Annie, alone.

She made no attempt to gaslight me. No “This is not what it looks like!” protestations. She simply got up, pulled a towel from beneath the bed, wiped the cum off of her face, and got dressed.

I asked, “Don’t you have anything to say?”

She looked at me for a moment, and shrugged. “Nope. You saw what you saw, and now you know what sort of wife I am. What are you going to do about it?”

I am sort of proud of the fact that I did not explode.

I told her, “Well, you have had considerably more time than I have, to consider what could happen once I found out. Once I have my thoughts in order, I’ll be in touch.”

I gathered some clothing, the necessary stuff for school, and exited.

Another friend from high school, also attending our college, put me up for a couple of weeks, until I could arrange other living accommodations. I still owe him for that breathing room.

Being college students, we had next to no assets, benevolent fate had NOT given us children, so the divorce was (relatively) painless and (relatively) uncomplicated.

Fortunately (for some values of “fortunately”), Annie’s Great Reveal had occurred near the end of the semester. Higher powers alone know how I passed my finals, but I did. By the time school resumed in August, I had managed to develop enough of a callous over the metaphorical scars in my heart, that I could focus and successfully finish my degree, write my boards, and successfully get licensed, and get to work.

Eventually, I met a woman, we dated, and I brought her home one evening. Emily Luce saw the wedding photo of Annie and me (Crom alone knows why I had it up on my wall!), and commented on how flattering it was, how handsome I looked, and how sweet, youthful and innocent my ex-bride appeared.

I laughed, and scoffed. “Thank you for your compliment, but I am merely average in looks. As for my ex, that photo does not do her justice. It conceals her inner decay, does not reveal how shallow and self centered she is. But, then, how could a picture reveal a persons awful personality? If it could lay that sort of thing bare, who among us would ever allow anyone to take a photograph of us?”