July 24, 2008

A Sad Affair

A friend of mine named Slow Eddie got home early from work the other day and walked in on his wife Judy lying in bed with another man.

Startled, Judy jumped, jiggled and gasped ― and immediately fell upon the man lying next to her and covered him with kisses.

All violent thoughts of revenge seeped out of Slow Eddie's stunned mind as he watched Judy kiss and snuggle, smooch, fondle and otherwise complete the act of lovemaking with this fellow over a period of some twenty minutes.

And he just stood there, watching, agape, watching, jaw slowly sliding down to thud against the floor, watching, stunned.

Slow Eddie unburdened himself to me a few days later over drinks. "I couldn't help myself," he confessed.  "It was as if I was frozen there, watching.  You know how people see an auto accident but then say that they saw the thing as if it was happening in slow motion?  You know ― the crash happens in two seconds, and ― "

"Eddie!  You stood there twenty minutes and watched!  Not two seconds ―  twenty minutes!"

Slow Eddie groaned ashamedly: "I know.  I know.  It just floored me the way she went all flagrante delicto and did the deed right in front of me.  Still, I gotta admit: her explanation afterwards made sense."

Gentleman that he is, Slow Eddie paused as I ordered another Gin & Tonic and downed two slow, cold gulps.  After which, he described Judy's long, dreary explanation.

The man was, true to so many other similar stories, a mutual acquaintance of theirs.  One night, "things just happened," as people in her position like to say.  (Have you ever noticed how easily the cherished concept of Free Will is discarded in favor of Chance when people feel guilty?)

At first, Judy felt certain she was in love ― and that was the only thing that mattered.

About a month later, it dawned on her that her idealistic notion of "pure love" had nothing to do with it.  Rather, it was a matter of fear of a failing marriage, mixed with a healthy dose of lust.

Still another month later, Judy realized she had a responsibility to stop the affair ―  but she just couldn't.  It had become a refuge from those elements of her marriage that she found unpleasant.

Yet another month later, Judy realized that she had to try to save her marriage ―  but she couldn't bring herself to end the affair because, even though she "didn't really love" the guy, still she had a great deal of affection for him ―  and she had a responsibility to him because, after all, they had a relationship.

Two months after that, Judy decided that her marriage wasn't so bad, after all.  In fact, she liked being married to Slow Eddie.  Problem was: she also liked her extramarital affair.  She liked both, and she was getting headaches balancing them.

Three days later, Slow Eddie walked in on Judy and her lover, and she thought to herself, "Well, this means things are going to come to an end, so I might as well make sure that it ends really good!"  Which is why she did such a "bang up job," as Slow Eddie described it, of making love to another man in front of him.

I remained silent a full two minutes after Slow Eddie finished his recounting of Judy's explanation ―  not because of amazement, but because I had swallowed the ice from my drink and my throat was freezing cold and hurting.

Having no words equal to the task of consoling Slow Eddie, I excused myself and left the bar, knowing that he would remain there for the rest of the night, drowning himself in beer.

Walking home, I recounted the tale to myself and remained amazed.  How is it that people get themselves into such situations, always with good intentions at the start, doing wrong or stupid things, and then creating ridiculous-sounding excuses for continuing foolishness that they, at heart, want to end?

Later that night, lying in bed, I found myself still perplexed, so I turned to Judy and asked her: "When Eddie walked in on us, and you jumped atop me, what was that thing you did ―  you know, at the very end ―  that wild move with your legs locked and your hips gyrating?"

Judy giggled.  "Oh, that move is a specialty of mine," she gloated.  "I call it, 'The Surge.'"