Chapter 1

You'd think after living with him for 20 years I'd have been able to get my husband to pick up his own clothes. It's like having two children, I thought scanning our bedroom, my arms tightening around the bundle of soiled clothing.

I kept my back straight and eyes forward like a fashion model scampering down the catwalk on ridiculously high heels. But in my pink, fluffy house slippers, my reason was to keep the collection of laundry in my arms from toppling over. Slowly, very slowly, I carefully bent my knees and reached, hugging the clothing to my body even tighter. My wiggling fingers found nothing but air. Carefully tilting to the side and glancing around the huge pile of clothing, I extended my arm until my fingertips contacted the shirt lying haphazardly on the chair. Stretching a bit further, I gathered the shirt within my grasping fingers. It slowly slid off the slick black leather and, finally, my adversary was dangling in my hand. I hesitated momentarily and held my breath as the stack of clothing precariously shifted, but after maintaining control I flicked the shirt on top and stood tall, my now free arm quickly clutching the bundle.

It was the smell that caused my arms to drop like trees fallen by the axe man's devastating blow. Even now, with the clothing scattered at my feet, the odor lingered. Dropping to one knee, I clutched my stomach struggling to breathe, and then dizziness overcame me. I plopped onto my butt like a toddler learning to walk. Looking into space I tried to focus, but my mind wasn't cooperating. And then my eyes lowered, drawn to the white cotton shirt.

Fearing what I'd find, but afraid not to do it, I grabbed my husband's shirt and brought it to my face with trembling hands. Inhaling deeply, I flung the garment away. It couldn't be ... it couldn't. Not Ron.

The shirt lay on the floor with one sleeve extended and bent at the elbow. It was almost comical, like Ron was about to throw a ball. But Ron was not in the shirt, hadn't been since the day before. He wore it to work and then a business meeting, coming home very late. Maybe that's why he didn't put his clothes away. He came home so late so often that he must always be tired.

Staring at the shirt, I didn't want to know the answer. That's a lie. I had to know, but I prayed it wasn't what I thought. Getting onto my hands and knees I crawled the few feet to where the evidence lay. Leaning forward with my ass raised I sniffed like a dog. Then I sat, tears watering my eyes. My hand moved towards the shirt two times before my need eclipsed the fear. Shifting the shirt in my hands I studied the garment until spotting the red mark. Bringing it closer to my face, trying not to inhale the alien fragrance, I pulled the cotton material taut within my trembling fingers. It was the starched collar, and it had a hot pink smear on it. Rubbing my thumb across the waxy substance I clutched the shirt to my chest before dropping it onto my lap and burying my face in my hands. The tears fell freely. My husband's shirt smelled of a perfume I didn't wear and had lipstick on it.

Jumping to my feet, I stood in a daze. The reflection in the dresser mirror caught my attention, the shocked green eyes staring at me, confused and hurt. Turning my head to the left and then the right with my eyes locked on the reflection, I saw an older version of the teenager I had been. Especially with my hair pulled into a ponytail, it brought back memories of my youth. Studying my face, I smiled weakly. No wrinkles other than the small smile lines at the corners of my eyes, and my complexion was smooth and flawless. It always had been. When my teenage friends had fretted over acne, I was the envy of them all. Shaking my head, I watched my ponytail bounce. It was as blonde as the day I wed, and just as shimmering.

Taking three steps back, my body came into view, framed by the mirror like a picture. Sliding my hands down my sides I turned slightly, sucking in my gut and holding it. But soon the air whooshed out and the slight tummy reappeared. I didn't have a belly, but at 41, and having given birth, it wasn't the flat teenage one any longer. Sucking in more air I patted my stomach. It was still firm, and my figure was intact, and my breasts were firm too I told myself as I cupped them in my hands. Maybe it's because they weren't large, not that 34B is that small. After all, at 5' 3" anything larger would look obscene. At least I was able to do housework without a bra.

The confident gleam in my eyes quickly faded as my head turned to locate the discarded shirt crumpled where I had dropped it. What was I to do? Confront Ron? Tell him to move out? Ask for a divorce? Who was the slut? Why was he cheating?

My chin dropped to my chest. Why was he cheating? Maybe it was my fault. After all, we no longer had much of a sex life. I knew I lacked the desire. When we were young it was all so new, exciting. But after a while it became old, like Ron. Father Time wasn't as generous with Ron. His hair thinned ... Who am I kidding? Ron went bald! What he lost on his head he seemed to grow everywhere else -- ears, bushy eyebrows, nostrils ... hell, all over his body except his head. And it seemed like every year we had to buy him new pants and a larger belt. So although I loved him, I just didn't find him sexually attractive like when we were younger. But still, I didn't cheat on him so that was no excuse for him to commit adultery.

Staring at the mess on the floor, I picked the shirt up and carried it to the kitchen where I retrieved a large plastic storage bag, you know, the kind used to keep food fresh. Folding the shirt into a small square, I stuffed it into the plastic bag and zipped it shut. Returning to my bedroom, I hid the package under my underwear, and then gathered the soiled clothing scattered on the floor and returned to my chores. I needed time to think.