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Julie had another night of insomnia. The husband, Peter, did he love her? Was he carrying on an affair? Was it Lisa, the one with the saluting tits who loved to laugh and enchant the world with a wisecrack and a smile? Earlier that evening Julie had spied Lisa and Peter huddled together at the party serenading each other with jokes that Julie couldn't decode. Was Lisa a friend/foe? No matter, Julie knew that Lisa was a questionable comrade at best, a plumed snake charmer in Armani.
As Julie rehearsed images of Peter and Lisa, she concocted a poster gallery of sweaty thighs, spilled wine, sloppy sheets, coiled underwear, whips, and latex.
Increasingly, vivid fantasies of deception cannonballed Julie into orbit. She shimmied out of bed and tiptoed into Peter's office. Being a husband stalker of reliable skill, Julie was hell-bent on finding proof of betrayal. Some small sliver of sanity within Julie admonished her for this transgression. Hadn't she quit these nightly rampages?
Julie mowed through Peter's desk. She systematically examined the pockets of his jacket, picked open locked drawers, and finally, dove into the wallet, BlackBerry, and PC. Every rock was lifted, patted, and sniffed. But in the end, Julie felt a bitter comedown. There were no Viagra pills or condoms in the wallet, no indictable texts or e-mails, no questionable credit card bills … just nothing at all.
Julie took a long, slow walk down the hallway to the kitchen, where she poured a glass of cognac and eyed the stable of anti-anxiety meds lined up on the counter. Downing the elixir of alcohol and Xanax, Julie felt sleepy for the first time that night. There was relief in knowing that the earth's rotation would take her to morning, where the day would lead her to the place where love just simply resumes.