Coming Home Early

George stopped and stared at his front door, taking in all the details. The purple paint that his wife had insisted upon was beginning to show signs of wear. The edges were peeling ever so lightly, dirt and grime had built up around the handle. The brass door knocker was beginning to tarnish as well. George hated this door. He had not wanted a purple door, to him it was obnoxious and gaudy. His wife Emily had informed him he was wrong and simply did not understand these kinds of things and in the end he had relented. He admittedly had no eye for décor, but it still did not mean he had to like it.

He checked his watch, it told him it was 2:13 in the afternoon. His wife’s car was in driveway and next to it was a black, F250 he had never seen before. The truck was well used, dirt and mud caked the bottom section, reaching up the side around the tires. An old, rusted toolbox stretched across the bed of the truck and a worn-out decal under the rear passenger window announced the truck belonged to JB Construction. He assumed the truck belonged to the man his wife had been spending the afternoon with. He had not expected them to be here. It must have gone well for her to take a first date back to the house she had shared with him for almost twenty years.

He thought back the messages he saw on her phone the night before. The back-and-forth flirting, the plans to finally meet face to face for lunch at a swanky restaurant downtown. He had not said anything then and all that morning at work he was wrought with shame. He hated himself for not blowing up, not demanding an explanation, not shouting, not yelling, not doing anything. Instead, he had finished reading the conversation and went right on back to staring at the TV. Shortly after his wife returned from the bathroom, he feigned being tired and went upstairs to bed. His wife had barely acknowledged his departure, it was the kind of goodnight a roommate would give. And that is what they had become. Roommates. It had been months since they had had sex, and he could not recall the last time they had kissed with anymore passion than he would have kissed his mother with.

As George stood there on his doorstep, staring at a door that he did not like, on the house he had spent two decades making a home, it dawned on him that he was surprised something like this had not happened sooner. They had been drifting apart for years. A process that had only accelerated when their daughter left for college the year before.

“Oh but maybe it had,” nagged a voice in the back of his mind. “Maybe there had been plenty of other men, first dates and afternoon excursions.”

“This could merely be the first time she had been caught,” added this intruder. And dark thoughts spread through him like poison. He thought back to all the time she had spent glued to her phone.

“How many times was some guy on the other end messaging her back?” How many times had she left work early to meet a stranger?” Had she felt any remorse? Did the men she met know she was married?” Did they even care?”

The anger that had been absent, stuck behind a dam of meekness that had been the cornerstone of his personality for most of his adult life, came pouring forward. He deserved better. He had worked hard and sacrificed his youth and dreams to provide a comfortable home for her and their child. He knew she did not owe him her love, but the least she owed him was the respect to try to work things out, or if it was past that to end it. The lies and deceit were too much to bear. The dam had finally broken, and he opened that ugly, gaudy purple door ready to let the flood of anger, rage, and despair spill onto his wife and this date of hers.

Instead of his wife and her lover greeting him with shock, George saw no one. He stared into the empty living room that his front door opened to. It looked almost as he had left it that morning on his way to work. The only thing out of place was a brown leather jacket he didn't recognize that was sprawled over the back of the couch. He looked beyond the living room to the dining room. There he saw the chairs askew and two, partially filled wine glasses flanking an open bottle of wine. He listened for voices but heard nothing. He slowly walked towards the dining room. He stopped briefly to stare down at the jacket. He picked it up to examine it closer for reasons he could not articulate, before tossing it back down while scoffing in disgust.

He reached the dining room table and examined the wine they had been sharing; the plain white label declared in thick industrial looking lettering that it was a Merlot from Speakeasy Winery. The very same wine they had served at their wedding nearly twenty years prior.

George sat down in one of the sloppily pulled out chairs. Thoughts of their wedding began to chase the anger away. It had been a wonderful night that they had often recalled for years afterwards, telling anyone they could how lucky they had been for it to go so well. They had gone small, opting for and outdoor wedding in the middle of June. It was hosted by friends of his parents on a beautiful farmhouse out in the country. They had been so happy then. Young, carefree and in love, they danced and drank the night away surrounded by family and friends.

The white-hot anger that had come on so suddenly, slipped away just as quickly. A calm sense of optimism took its place. It was over. The quiet desperation that he had not even realized had been there, was gone. George felt like he could breathe for the first time in years, not even realizing he was slowly being smothered in the first place. He took his wedding ring off for the second time ever since Emily had placed it on his hand all those years ago and set it carefully down on the base of one of the wine glasses.

As he stood up and turned to leave, he heard the unmistakable sounds of passion from the bedroom above him. He paused only for a moment then continued across the living room and back out that purple front door he had hated so much, shutting it quietly behind him. He walked past the black pickup truck belonging to Mr. JB Construction and to his car that was parked on the curb across the street. He made a quick call to his office letting them know he would be out the rest of the week then turned his phone off.

George started his car and drove away, heading towards the highway but not really knowing where he was going beyond that. He felt free for the first time in a very long time and his next move was his to make. Life was full of choices; his wife had made hers and he was making his.