Photo by Moss on Unsplash

I’ve been cheating for almost a year, you bragged, right after you’d shown us your daughters. After you’d painted yourself doting dad, builder of sandcastles, Master Tucker Inner. Hardworking husband, just trying to make it work. After you’d cast your wife as the passionless bore, three drinks and that’s it, when are we going home, I’m tired tonight. Described her lips, painted with rules, laundry and soccer practice. You just need an outlet! You tried to assure us, lopsided smile slick with your drink. Eyes coaxing out our approval. And you should see her, you continued, as we conducted an analysis of the floor, our hands, the top of the bar. 10 years younger, gorgeous rack — you wouldn’t blame me. You were winking then, legs spread on your chair, feet hooked between the rungs. As we signaled the bill and the bartender headed to our section, your phone lit up. “Miss you!” your wife had written. You glanced and smiled, sheepish, immediately blackening the screen. As we signed our checks and wrapped our scarves, you studied us, uncertain. Will I see you ladies again? you ventured, getting to your feet. Your phone lit up again. “I hope you’re having fun :)” she’d said. You snickered.

from his perspective:

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