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Breakup Essays-Essay #11 The End of The Affair





Today is the day that we say goodbye…for good.  This time I am not playing around. I do not have another 8 years to waste on a relationship with a solidly married man. His wife knows about me but, she pretends not to care.
She found my number in his phone and she confronted face to face on my front porch.
One day she showed up to inform me that their marriage is a sham and it always had been. However, she made it clear that he had husbandly duties which he would not ever be able to shirk. Then, she pulled out her cell phone and started scrolling through her calendar.
“So, you can have him every other Tuesday and Friday during the school year. But, during the summer, the kids might get suspicious if he is gone that often. Now, the last two weeks of July, we spend in Texas with my family. My husband doesn’t get along with my family so, he generally only comes down there for a few days. This would leave you free and clear to have a tryst. He has had a vascetomy, so pregnancy is gonna be out of the question.”
I stand silently. I am unsure of how to respond to her matter of fact manner. It turns out, she does not expect a formal response from me.
“Ok, so I am texting you the information right now. Try to be discreet in your outings. The last thing I need is for some well-meaning friend to bust you guys out on a date. Then, I will have to play the role of spurned wife and it is really not that serious for me.”
She laughs and it is filled with a surprising amount of  warmth. She gives me a demure finger wave and practically skips back to her silver SUV.
I watch her drive off and I am struck by her jovial attitude about her husband’s indiscretions.
Instead of feeling relieved by her permission slip, I am feeling awkward about the situation and disgusted with myself. Any delusions which I may have previously harbored about being in love with this man are quickly evaporating. All I can see is ten years into the future and still being relegated to the sidelines of his life.


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