0300, Wednesday morning.
She is the womb of wombs.
Once you’ve entered her dark belly, it is very hard to tear away from such dark happiness. However, if you’ve recently found evidence that your wife may be cheating on you . . . sleep is a razor studded djinn supplanting your stasis with visions that gouge into your soul with lightning sharp brutality.
2300, the previous night.
You can’t shake the feeling. It’s something you haven’t felt in years since that one girlfriend, who had a knack for blow jobs, slept with that fuckhead while you sat in jail wondering where she was with that food she promised to bring by.
That feeling should be a foreigner in your domesticated brain but Mrs. Suspicion enters sudden, as though she’d never been gone, making her house a comfortable palace of intrigue.
You always struggle to remember your own passwords to private accounts and hers are even harder to remember.
Back in the states, it was “Well I’m going to get on the internet to see what the show times are for that movie . . . even though I know it’s gonna suck.”
“Can you check my email babe” she asks from the bathroom mirror.
“What’s your password again?”
“You know my fucking code you shit” water is running and she pokes her head around the corner to taunt you with a lone boob pointing at you accusingly.
“It’s so complicated. Why do you make your codes so complex? It’s just email. I can never remember your passwords.”
This time, in Kuwait, on desert deployment, is different.
This time, you need information. This time you need piece of mind.
Yesterday’s conversation threw up flags. Alarms screeched, tumbling your insides out and now your synaptic fires gleam white hot in a storm of precision and calling up her codes becomes effortless.
The day before
“Do you think we’re compatible” she asks out of the blue.
Quickly, you raise defensive “of course I think we’re compatible, we wouldn’t be married if I thought otherwise. Would we?”
“I know but sometimes I feel like you need someone more intelligent who can handle conversations with you. Sometimes I feel so stupid around you. Even though you’re not trying to make me feel that way, I do. Maybe you need someone on your level.”
Later in the conversation and equally out of the blue “How do you do it?”
“Do what” you ask.
“Go so long without acting on your attractions to the females around you? I wouldn’t know it if you did do something.”
“I’m surrounded by Army. There are no attractions out here for me.”
“Don’t lie to me. Even if it’s true, there is this way about you that good looking women flock to. I know Army women aren’t the best but if there’s only one model there, she’s a friend of yours.”
For a strange reason, these two questions ring alarm bells.
You need to know the flags were only flukes.
First you try her yahoo. You rifle through her account with the abandon of a desperate thief. Nothing.
Then you try her myspace account. You type in the password.
A small piece of time, waiting for the screen to load on your slow military computer elongates into a humble moment of what the fuck is wrong with you? Stop overreacting. You’re being childish.
There we go. You check her inbox, searching a few pages of messages but nothing stands out shiny with that stink you’re looking for.
You drag the cursor over the sign out link as you register the sent and trash. Don’t forget the sent and trash you tell yourself.
Sent is nada city.
Opening the trash you see a black metropolis of stank. Adrenalin waves break against the shores of your eyes.
Your heartbeat reverberates through your rib cage, your finger bones, your eyes pound—you vibrate a bit.
Opening up the nearest message of six, from a guy in oversized shades by the name Tino, you hope you are wrong.
The vibrations turn to unfettered mini convulsions threatening to undo something as you read the message written in special-illiterate, myspace cheater’s font . . .
Well i think its awsome that we are hooking up. and i promise that i will behave, or try to. I enjoy the times we have spent talking on the phone, and hope that you never forget my number. I cant wait to see those pretty lips of yours, and your sexy eyes. I am sure it will bring one of those smiles to my face the first time i see you again. Stacy, I know the situation that you are in, and i respect that, but one thing you need to know, is that im here when you need someone to talk to. I have always had a thing for you, and you never were forgotten. Its been a long time, and im like you, I really cant wait to see you again. Take care..........mmmmmuuuuuuuuuuuaa
Over and over you read the message aiming to unlock its secrets. Are you being too hasty? Maybe there’s less here than you are actually seeing.
What does he mean by hooking up?
Who the fuck is this guy and why is there no apparent flirtation limitation even though they’ve been talking on the phone? Why does he feel free to speak that way to my wife?
Can’t call her now. She’s at work and she never answers the phone at work. Besides, you want to use volume and language not conducive to the office environment.
Somehow you manage to sleep through the adrenalin, heart bleats and the sound of your marriage cracking open.
WAKE THE FUCK UP screams your body at 0400 on the dark dot.
Time to call the wife. . .