Unreliable Source

It all started with a flash of blonde. A glossy ponytail, like lightning around the corner of the chip aisle at a grocery store we had been to thousands of times before. Her golden whip snapped, catching my eye only a moment too late. I was unable to see its beholder. The second snap, my eyes to Dorians face. Normally sun kissed, was somehow pale and rosy at the same time. I watched as he quickly averted his eyes, expertly pulling the mask back down and selecting a bag of ruffles from the shelf before us.

I didn’t know what I saw, or thought I saw, what I knew was that all my instinctual alarms were blaring in each of my nerve endings. The ancestral coding from women before me activated an intuition I was unsure how to decipher. My hands became clammy, transferring the moisture to the shopping cart. I clutched its cool rail with the force of 20 men, imprinting my new wedding ring into my skin. Tribal drums erupted in my ears, pumping adrenalin with each pound of stretched hide. I wanted to hunt, to be the predator instead of the prey, to track the wild beast that lurked in the bushes, just out of view of the villagers. But I was the beta species in this scenario, a frozen possum presumed dead and unworthy of slaughter. The bear, beside me, and the lioness, probably in the produce section by now, are both aware of my place in the food chain.

               From the initial glimpse of the apparition at the end of aisle four, to this point, only a few seconds had surpassed. My heightened senses slowed every moment to a crawl, making it feel like an hour. “Who was that?” I asked accusingly, scanning every inch of Dorian’s body and face for a twitch or indication my accusation was justified. “Who?” He answered bluntly, looking around at the deserted aisle before locking eyes with me. I noticed him swallow as we held eye contact for a few moments. His Adam’s apple rose and then settled back into its place behind a missed patch of stubble. I tried to match my breathing to the rise and fall of his chest, measuring if it seemed as rapid as it looked. Compared to my own elevated breathing, it was too slow for comfort, so I deemed it to be an inconclusive result.

               “Don’t do that, Dorian, can’t you just be honest with me? Please!” I cried, disgusted with the whine in my voice. “Don’t do what, Amy? I don’t know what you’re talking about! Can’t we just have nice day?” His calm exterior finally shifted, twisting into a scowl I had seen many times before. In the past he’d even been able to squeeze out a tear from time to time, claiming it was not an admission of guilt, but a demonstration of frustration. I found it to be a clear sign of manipulation that he only ever cried when we were at home. If he were truly as frustrated as he claimed to be, he wouldn’t be able to be so selective. How convenient. Right now, his eyes were the kind of day we prayed for in the rainy weeks prior to our April wedding, not a tear in sight.

               I took a deep breath, snatching the bag of chips from his hands and tossing them into the cart haphazardly. I allowed the anger to melt from my skin, leaving trails of it throughout the store as we completed our shopping. By the time we got to the truck, I had completely defrosted, grateful there were only brunettes in the store for the remainder of the shopping trip. Dorian flipped his switch off much faster, the guilty party always does, relieved to be off the hook and onto any subject but that one. He’d gotten good at gaslighting me throughout the years, I even doubted myself sometimes. It was possible the florescent lighting made him appear flushed. Maybe he really was looking at the chips, unaware of anyone else in the isle. The blond could have been rushing through the store on her lunch break, hence the way she scampered off.

The scene plays in my head from time to time, creeping into my thoughts and pointing a spotlight at the important parts. The woman’s fleeing hair, Dorians face, his nervous swallow, his defensive response, his hasty recovery. Each time, I become inconsolable, unwilling to listen to any kind of explanation because I know what I saw!

One night, a month later, I laid awake in bed watching tv on silent, my husband was fast asleep beside me. I resented his ability to fall asleep so easily, it always took me several hours to unwind. He looked peaceful, rendered unconscious by hours of working in the sun. His young body ached many years too early from the demands of his labor. I observed him momentarily before sensing I was being watched, called by a siren I hadn’t yet noticed.

 Like some kind of demonic possession, the awareness of his phone on the nightstand overtook me. The black screen glistened, reflecting scenes from the sitcom on the TV. I had never gone through it; the thought sickened me. Not because I thought he was innocent or because I valued his privacy. No. I questioned what would be worse, having my fears confirmed, or realizing I really was just “crazy” and “insecure”.

My pulse quickened, I worried he could feel it through the mattress. Holding my breath, I slipped off the bed and laid still on the carpet, listening for any indication Dorian was awake. He was not a light sleeper by any means, but the shame of getting caught was mortifying. Even lower on the food chain than a possum, I moved slowly around the bed on my hands and knees, sulking along like a filthy little worm with shit on my face. The restraint of maintaining my slow, soundless crawl was agonizing.

Once I arrived at the nightstand, I was dizzy with dread of what I’d discover on Dorians phone. With shaky hands, I tediously audited the device, opening each file, message, app, and folder. The time flew, minutes turned to hours, my eyes stung with each blink as I scanned every fiber for a clue of infidelity. I zoomed in on photos, investigating reflections and backgrounds, looking for anything out of place. And then I found it. I didn’t know what I was looking for until I found it. He couldn’t explain this away. He couldn’t gaslight me into brushing it off. I suddenly realized I was breathing loudly, unable to hear myself over my screaming thoughts. A flood of devastation washed over me. I quickly rinsed it off with a feeling of relief. I wasn’t crazy, I was right.

During my search of his photo gallery, I’d noticed a photo of him from a few weeks before our wedding in the office at his job site. In the photo he was posing with a few of the other guys, eating cake and pizza. I disregarded this as anything relevant. As I continued my search, I skimmed through his bank app, though we have a joint account, he does have a credit card and a savings account to himself. As I searched, line by line, through his transactions, I noticed a payment of 109.97 to Pizza King, I took a moment to verify that the order was completed on the same date as the photo, March 12th.

March 12th? Why did that date sound so familiar? My bachelorette party. I was out of town that week for my bachelorette trip to Nashville. But whose birthday was on March 12th from his job? I searched through his friends on social media, finding no one relevant who had a birthday that day. I felt desperate, convinced I was onto something. Deciding it was a dead end, I moved on through the less relevant apps, the calculator, notes, and Calendar; prepared to accept there was nothing, Until I saw a red dot, flagging March 12th.

“Makenzie’s 28th birthday DON’T FORGET!!!!!”

               I inspected every inch of the phone once more, searching for this Makenzie, using every alias I could think of. Kenzie, Mak, Mac, Mack, Ken, Kennie, all duds. Returning at last to the photo of Dorian and the birthday party, I stared at it hopelessly. Behind them, people mingled, eating and drinking sodas. There were various blueprints and charts tacked to the walls and a large whiteboard with scribbles and sketches all over it. On a desk with the cake sitting on top of it, I noticed little hints of pink amongst the supplies, presumably Makenzie’s desk. There, in a clear cup, was an array of bobby pins, clips and hair ties. But not the black ones I used, light brown ones, almost tan. Makenzie was blonde.

               I sprung to my feet, unconcerned with being quiet, slamming the phone on the night stand. Dorian sat up, startled and confused. “Babe? What’s going on?” he stammered, looking around the room for the source of the crash. “You’re having and affair with Makenzie from work. Don’t bother lying to me!” I towered over him, shaking and foaming at the mouth like a maniac. “Oh my god,” he rubbed his eyes and threw himself back onto his pillow, “you sound insane, Amy. Seriously you need to get help, baby.” Of course he was going to deny it, he didn’t know he had been caught red handed.

I proceeded to ramble on, walking him along the breadcrumbs I had followed and the evidence I had collected. I knew I sounded insane, I knew my blood shot eyes made me look psychotic. All the while he rolled his own sleepy eyes, scoffing and laughing in my face while I explained how I knew I hadn’t imagined the scene at the grocery store. He did very little to convince me I was wrong, telling me to go to bed, complaining about how tired he was of the theatrics, claiming I would realize I was delusional by the morning.

Obediently, I complied, crying myself to sleep softly, careful not to wake him up again. My intuition made me sick and restless, yearning to be acknowledged. I knew he was doing something. My friends would ask me how I knew, and I had no way to convince them to believe me as blindly as I believed in myself. “I just know!” I’d cry. They’d all look back at me with concern in their eyes, nodding to soothe me. My mom told me about my father’s mistress, explaining that it took years to finally nail them. “You’ve gotta keep your cards close to your chest, Amy. Once you make yourself look crazy, you’re an unreliable source.”

Why should I keep my cards close to my chest? I’m supposed to sit around, looking like a fool while he wastes my time? I’m wasting my childbearing years with him. Risking infection because of his little affair. Affairs maybe?

My mind reeled for weeks following my discovery. I kept my eyes peeled, staying vigilant. I did my best to act normal, asking about his day and noting any details that might be useful later. I played nice, biting my tongue. Dorian and I cohabited peacefully. A peace that was fully reliant on my ability to mind my business. My husband was unusually affectionate, surprising me with flowers and massages unexpectedly. I accepted these gestures like the domesticated lap dog I had become. The wolf within me cringed at what I had become. I resented the illusion I had created and how content he was to enjoy its convenience.

               Every day, Dorian would leave for work, leaving me home to imagine what was happening between him and his lover there. Was she greeting him with a coffee when he’d arrive? Bringing him a refreshing drink when the sun began to swelter? Or would he seek shelter in the office, using the AC as an excuse to linger around her desk? If they were having lunch together every day, I would never know. Sometimes my husband would come home and sit in his truck for a few minutes before getting down. Could he be deleting messages before coming in, maybe just enjoying his last seconds before having to pretend to love me? I’d watch these candid moments each night from the window in the living room, enjoying my last few seconds before having to pretend to be his blissfully unaware wife.

               With time, I began to look at myself differently. I was once a beautiful strawberry, now rotting from the inside out as maggots festered within my structure. My bushy mane thinned, leaving blobs of dark hair in the shower. Though I slept the same amount as always, bags appeared beneath my eyes one day and never left. Sometimes I felt sick for no reason, leaving me with no appetite. I was never this person. The paranoid and insecure form I had adopted was normally unimaginable. I used to advise my friends to leave their partners, to cheat back, to empty the bank accounts and abandon the sinking ship. They must all be watching me unfold now, laughing at my hypocrisy behind my back. Dorian must be watching the slow decomposition, pleased as I grow weaker, unwilling to fight.

               After about a year of this, I was no longer able or willing to maintain my wifely duties. What was the point? I used to work out, keep up with my hair and nails, and be fully done up when my husband came home. I knew he wasn’t keeping up with his half of the deal, so why should I? I watch as he picked up new hobbies, started getting into shape, even taking more time getting ready in the mornings. I knew this extra effort wasn’t for me, we were hardly intimate after a while. I felt like a life force he was draining, withdrawing my spirit like a parasite, only aware of it is own needs.

               One night Dorian took longer than usual to come home. I didn’t dare call him and inquire; he’d just turn things around on me. I paced the house, feeling cement settle in my gut with each passing moment. Imagining all the things he could be doing, hoping he’d just stopped for gas. The visual images in my head were graphic, I could picture his fingers wrapped up in a mess of blonde hair, sitting her up on the desk with the pink scissors and stapler tossed to the ground. I could smell her perfume, taste her kiss, even feel her body pressed against mine. I wanted him to come home, with a drive-thru burger in his hands, ending my suffering.

As usual, he pulled into the driveway, lingering in the truck for several moments before slowly gathering his belongings from the passenger seat and coming inside. The cement in my gut had dissolved, replaced by a swarm of hornets. Joining me on the couch, lunchbox and jacket in hand, he sighed without looking at me. “I’m not happy anymore, Amy. This isn’t working.” The wind left my body; I’d been struck in the chest by a wrecking ball. “Is there someone else?” I squeaked out, trying to sound unbothered. “Here we go. I knew you’d take it there, like always.” He stood and left the den, flicking on a light in our bedroom and shuffling through drawers and the closet.

I followed him, no longer concerned with appearing nonchalant. “Where are you going, Dorian. We’re married! You can’t just leave at the first sign of trouble, if that were the case I would have left you a year ago!” I screamed through tears as he stuffed a duffle bag with clothes. He didn’t bother answering back, he seemed almost eager to get out of the house. I knew where he was going, I’m sure someone else was waiting for him to walk through their front door, just as I had every night. The difference was, he’d be arriving with a smile on his face, lifting her up and kissing her like those videos where the soldiers return home from deployment. I heard soldiers are notorious cheaters also, fitting.

I did my best to reason with him, reminding him of our vows and promises he’d made to my family when we got engaged. Nothing could penetrate the iron gate and alligator infested mote he surrounded himself with. I wanted him to scream at me, to punch a hole in the dry wall, anything to show he still cared. He instead remained stoic, as if he couldn’t hear or see me at all. I threw myself between my fleeing husband and the front door in one last desperate effort to keep him from leaving. Dorian only rolled his eyes in contempt, “I don’t love you anymore, Amy.” With that I released my frantic grip on the door frame and stood aside, cashing in on the last bit of self-respect I had.

He tossed his duffle bag in the passenger seat and flipped the vehicle into reverse without looking at me again. Just as the tires touched the asphalt in the street, he hit the brakes, a tiny shock of hope sparked in my heart. I was prepared to forgive everything, seek counseling, anything I needed to do to make it work. If he was only a little willing.

I watched in suspense as he shuffled around, looking for something, finally retrieving his phone. His cold demeanor disappeared, placing his phone to his ear exposing that million dollar smile I’d once been entranced by. With that, he put the truck back in drive and excitedly hurried down the street, not even acknowledging the stop sign at the end. I was shocked at his ability to flip off his emotional switch so fast, the guilty party always does.