Why I smiled at another man
I come in here expecting to find my man with another woman.
I guess I need to see it for myself, the final piece of evidence that will allow me to get angry with him.
The clues I’ve seen so far only make me feel hurt.
I’ve known about him for a long time.
I’ve seen all the signs of failing love: the cold goodbyes, the colder hellos, the subtle sense of perpetual anger each time I try to talk to him.
He always seems indifferent to me, staring off when I ask serious questions, not about his cheating, but about the every day things like how work is or my concerns if one of our boys comes down ill.
He doesn’t even appreciate supper, stirring at it with his folk as he reads the sports pages.
My life seems to exist between seasons, when the paper has no scores to report.
Of course, I’ve seen more concrete signs: the lipstick on his collar, the lingering scent of perfume that isn’t mine.
For another woman, these things ought to be enough; not for me.
I can’t hate my husband based on circumstantial evidence.
Besides, I keep thinking it is me that somehow I have managed to drive him away, and can’t figure out how I did it or how I can undo it, or even if I can.
Of course, he’s savvy enough not to come back to the same bar where he met me. So I order a drink, sip on it a while, then noticed the interested stare of a man at the bar, a man who is not my husband, but a man who isn’t running away from me the way my husband is.
And I think: Why not?
If he can do it, why can’t I.
So I smile.