I said:
“I’m not going to physically stop you.”
Laura took that sentence as permission.
It was not.
Three days later, she packed a suitcase.
That morning was one of the strangest of my life.
I watched my wife fold jeans into luggage for a trip with another man while our dog lay on the bedroom rug.
At one point Laura held up two sweaters.
“Blue or gray?”
Then she stopped herself.
The question had been automatic.
For eleven years, I had been the person she asked.
We both felt the absurdity.
She chose gray.
At the front door, she hugged Murphy.
Then turned toward me.
“I’m not trying to hurt you.”
I almost said:
“That doesn’t make you less capable of doing it.”
Instead, I stayed quiet.
Laura kissed my cheek.
Not my mouth.
“I’ll text.”
I nodded.
She left.
I stood in the doorway watching her car disappear.
Murphy sat beside me.
Then looked up as though I could explain why one member of the household had driven away with luggage.
“I’ve got nothing.”
I told him.
The first week was hell.
There is no dignified way to describe it.
I went to work.
Answered emails.
Sat in meetings.
Pretended to care about deadlines.
Then came home to a house that felt like evidence.
Laura’s mug.
Her running shoes.
Hair ties beside the sink.
The blanket she always claimed on the couch.
At night, my imagination became vicious.
I pictured them talking beside a fireplace.
Drinking wine.
Laughing about memories that existed before me.
Walking mountain trails.
Sitting too close.
Touching.
Kissing.
I tried not to imagine sex.
Which means I imagined it constantly.
Laura texted.
“Made it safely.”
Then:
“Cabin is beautiful.”
Then:
“Talking has been intense but good.”
Good.
I stared at that word for ten minutes.
On day four, she sent a picture of mountains.
No Michael.
Just landscape.
I almost replied:
“Nice.”
Then deleted it.
On day five:
“Hope you and Murphy are okay.”
I typed:
“We’re fine.”
Deleted that too.
Eventually sent:
“Yes.”
That became our communication.
Small.
Meaningless.
She never called at night.
That detail destroyed me.
If they were only talking, why could she not call her husband for five minutes before bed?
I did not ask.
I did not want the answer.
A friend named Chris noticed something was wrong.
We worked in the same building and had known each other since college.
At lunch one afternoon, he said:
“Where’s Laura?”
“Trip.”
“With who?”
I hesitated.
That was enough.
Chris stared at me.
“Dude.”
“Don’t.”
“With Michael?”
I looked up.
I had apparently complained about Michael enough that Chris knew the name.
“Yes.”
Chris leaned back.
“For how long?”
“Two weeks.”
He stared at me so long I became angry.
“Say whatever you’re going to say.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Then don’t.”
He lowered his voice.
“You okay?”
“No.”
That was the first honest answer I gave anyone.
Chris asked: