Hypocrisy.

They kissed. She smelled of infidelity and cheap cologne. He pulled the chair out for her. She sat. She had a glow about her, something along the lines of Ingrid Bergman in Casablanca, except this was New York and she was an actual whore. They exchanged smiles.

“How was your day dear?” She inquired, with an air which would lead one to assume she didn’t give two fucks about the answer.

“Pretty uneventful, work seemed to drag on forever. Long day, even longer drive back; traffic was a bitch.”

He smiled. He found it very amusing that he was able to slip bitch in so casually. He thought he was quite clever; he wasn’t.

“How was your day hon?” He asked.

“Well…I went to lunch with Becky…”

Lies.

“Then I ran to the supermarket to pick up the eggs you asked for…”

Lies.

“I went to my Pilates class...oh and I finished up with a full body massage.”

“How was your massage?”

“It was nice, had a new masseuse this time.”

It was becoming increasingly hard for him to work up the courage to accuse his wife of fooling around on him. It is one thing to stand in front of the mirror as if you are the star of Taxi Driver; it is another to actually berate your wife in public. He thought of what his mother would think and how she had warned him on his wedding day about his wife-to-be. A mother’s intuition is what she called it. He thought of the kids and how they would only see their mother on weekends. Naturally he assumed that he would receive full custody, she was the one with a history of drinking, he never touched the stuff; he had tried marijuana once in college, but always stuck to fact that he never inhaled. He thought of the countless friends they would both lose, how double dating would no longer be the norm, and how lonely a queen bed can really be. He stood up, courage on his lips and fire within his tongue. He then sat down as quickly as he stood. His mistress looked absolutely radiant as she walked by.