Page 4 of The Perfect Marriage

Sarah used to do that to me. But now around her, I’m barely a man let alone anything else.

At the vanity I look at myself in the mirror. A five-o’clock shadow has taken over my face, and my hair is out of place. My otherwise blue eyes are clouded with red. I can only stand looking at myself for a few seconds before I must look away. I’m not ashamed of who I am, but I’m not proud either. I splash some water on my face and then onto my chest, abs, and dick. I’m too tired to shower. I pat myself dry with a towel.

“Babe?” Kelly yells from the other room.

“Yeah, hon?” I answer as I start brushing my teeth.

“Your wife texted you.”

I spit the toothpaste into the sink and rinse my mouth out, wiping my lips with my hand. Back in the bedroom, the lights are on now, and Kelly is sitting in bed, wearing a nightgown, while holding my phone. She smiles up at me.

“What did she say?” I slide a pair of Ralph Lauren pajama pants on.

“She wants to know what you’re doing.”

I take a seat on the bed next to her, pushing her long brown hair back. I gently kiss her neck and shoulder.

“Tell her I’m about to fuck the girl of my dreams again,” I whisper. Kelly laughs and begins texting back.

“Your wish is my command.” She giggles. I swipe the phone from her playfully and get out of bed. I quickly text back.

Since you couldn’t make it to me, I’m coming back tonight to see you. No need to wait up. Love you.

Before I can set the phone down, Sarah texts back.

I love you too. I got a chance to read the new pages you sent over lunch, and they’re incredible. I’m so proud of you XOXO.

I smile for a brief second, before a wave of guilt spans over me. I let out a sigh.

You’re the best, babe. Let me take you out for dinner tomorrow night. Say yes.

My phone vibrates.

Yes.

Sometimes, I get a glimpse of who we used to be, and I think we can be that couple again. But I’ve fucked up too much for that to ever happen, and Sarah’s career has always come first—before me, before a family, before everything. I don’t foresee that ever changing.

I thought when we had kids, she’d slow down, but she told me five years ago she didn’t want kids. I thought I’d be able to change her mind. I couldn’t.

I set my phone down on the dresser and plug it into the charger. I look over at Kelly who is giving me bedroom eyes. She can never get enough of me, and I can’t get enough of her. But I know that won’t always be true. There was a time that Sarah and I couldn’t get enough of each other either. That time passed long ago. Occasionally, those feelings resurface, but they’re short-lived and usually induced by alcohol or time apart. Don’t get me wrong, I love Sarah. If I didn’t, I would have left her long ago. It’s that love that I hold on to—not the money, the security or the houses. Kelly gives me the love that Sarah can no longer. They both complete me. It’s sick I know, but it’s true. I need them both.

“Are you ever going to tell your wife about us?”

“Are you ever going to tell your husband about us?” I retort.

She huffs and folds her arms across her chest. “It’s not the same.” Her words are quiet.

I leave and return with two full glasses of scotch, handing one to her and taking a seat. I put one arm around her and pull her close telling her I know. She lets out a soft, silent sob and as quickly as the cry left her body, she pulls it back in, regaining her composure. She takes a large gulp of the scotch and doesn’t even flinch at the burn. She leans into me. We sit there in silence, drinking our glasses of scotch, trapped in loveless marriages where we come second to the people we love. When Kelly and I are together, we come first. I refill our glasses twice more, and then we have sex again. This time, I don’t fuck her—I make love to her.

3

Sarah Morgan

I’m poring over case files, the papers shifting and falling like the snow of a freshly plunged avalanche. I had planned to go into the office for just a few hours to prep for the week, but here I am sipping at my twelve-hour old coffee with oil circles floating on top to remind me of its age. My corner office is on the fourteenth floor, which is as high as one can get in D.C. without erecting a phallus taller than Mr. Washington’s. It has floor-to-ceiling windows and is one of the biggest in the firm, and no one would contest as to why I was given it.

With several high-profile cases and the most case wins out of any attorney here, I more than earned my place as a named partner at Williamson & Morgan. The tips of my fingers rub my forehead, slowly massaging my temples as if to conjure myself back into a state of peace and normalcy. I slide my reading glasses off and drop them onto my desk with a resounding crash to punctuate my frustration. The clock on my phone reads 8:04pm. An exasperated huff exits my mouth to let the non-existent audience in my office know how taxed I am.

I send a quick text to Adam:

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