We Loved We Laughed We Cried

My wife broke the news to me.  She enjoyed it, too, I'm certain of that.  It was a juicy piece of gossip.

A friend of ours, a Spanish teacher at the high school where my wife taught French, had run off with the history teacher.  Their respective spouses never suspected a thing.  My wife and I didn't see it coming, either, and my wife was the Senora's best friend.

"We'd better call Ken and see how he's doing," my wife said.  My wife sounded positively bubbly.  I knew why, too.  It was vindication.  It was a battle won, or at least no longer hers to lose.  It was an item to cross off the list.

My wife spent the evening on the phone, tsk-tsking with fellow-travelers far and wide.

After dinner, I went into the room we euphemistically called our family room and listened to jazz tunes and got drunk.  I picked music to suit my mood.  I played "Just Friends" over and over again.

At ten o'clock my wife poked her head through the door and asked me if I was coming to bed.  "In a bit," I said.  But I didn't go to bed that night until very late.  Instead I sat there drinking bourbon and listening to music and having a great time feeling very, very sorry for myself.