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The story I’m about to tell you began eight years ago on a sunny afternoon just before I found the letters. The memory stands out bright and clear, perhaps because everything became a dull gray soon afterward. I was waiting for Gary in our beautiful new bedroom, my interior designer’s dream come true. Surrounded on three sides by windows that stretched from floor to ceiling, the room had an oval-shaped spa and antique English furniture. From the king-sized bed I could look through the windows and see a tall oak and an ancient elm spread their canopies over the expanse of lawn behind the house. Usually I loved to look out those windows, but that afternoon I was edgy and a little bored.
It’s embarrassing to tell you that I spent a lot of time thinking about the good-looking guy who had worked out next to me in the gym that morning. However, when I heard Gary’s car turn into the driveway, I got out of bed and examined myself in the mirror. My body was trim in its spandex polo shirt and tight jeans, but not quite trim enough. My stomach bulged a little, and I bemoaned the fact that my muscles weren’t as tight as they used to be. The exercise routine I was doing with my personal trainer was making a difference, but it wasn’t enough. I secretly believed the only thing that would really help was being ten years younger.
“Mmm, you smell good today,” I murmured, greeting Gary in the hallway.
He said nothing but grabbed for my left breast. It made me cringe. Why was he so crude, such a boor? Trying to hide my distaste, I picked up his Ferragamo raincoat and hung it in the closet.
Meanwhile Gary admired his new haircut in the hall mirror. “I had some time this afternoon so I tried out the new men’s salon next to the health club. Didn’t they do a good job, Kate?” Noticing my nod wasn’t particularly friendly, he quipped, “All for my sales career.”
As I tried to move past him, he turned abruptly, wrapped his arms around my waist, and pulled me up against him sharply. I groaned inside. What did he think I was, a toy? This was far from the romantic scene I had been imagining while lying in bed. But there was no more time to think; his voice flat, Gary was suggesting we have a quickie before our eight-year-old son came home from his soccer game.
Glancing at my watch, I calculated we had thirty minutes until our son came home. This would really have to be quick. I had dinner to make. So, with a certain reluctance that Gary probably noticed, I said okay. He took that as an opportunity to touch a pimple on my face and grimace his disapproval. I felt awful about the pimple; it was so humiliating. I remember wishing I could get away to put on some more makeup, but at the time, I could no more have gotten away than fly to the moon.
I hope you understand that this is very hard for me to tell you. I’ve come a long distance since that afternoon, and if it happened now, I wouldn’t let him be so mean to me. But that day I didn’t feel as if I had any choice; all I could do was try to stay calm. Besides, I loved Gary.
