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MERIT

I sneeze so hard my forehead ricochets off the steering wheel.

Ouch.

I look down in resignation at my navy shirt, now covered in remnants of snot. There’s nothing worse than having a cold in the middle of summer. And this cold is completely kicking my ass.

My throat is raw, my brain feels thick and sticky with the side effects of a fever, and somehow my nose is completely congested, yet still running like someone turned on a faucet. On top of all that, I’ve never gone home sick in the middle of the day before. That’s just not something I do. The store is my happy place, a place I built from the ground up. It’s more than stressful, but always more than rewarding.

Sighing in tired defeat—because all I want is my bed—I watch as the garage door slowly slides open. I’m shocked to see Edward’s car. The afternoon sun reflects off the bright red paint of the sports car, making my eyes water more than they already are.

What is he doing home?

Concern seeps into my heart. Maybe he’s sick too? If I got him sick, he won’t be happy—he has a trial coming up. And, of course, it would never occur to him that maybe he got me sick. It’s always me, I’m the one who’s around kids every day, so by default, I’m Patient Zero…always.

It takes all my energy to climb from the car. If it wouldn’t be completely pathetic, I would lie down right in the middle of the garage and nap, using one of his expensive golf towels as a blanket. Or maybe his car cover. I mean, it is made of supple leather and sheepskin. Could be comfy, you never know. And I’m just that desperate to get in the horizontal position.

But I don’t think he would appreciate that much—Edward doesn’t really like it when I touch his stuff— so I force myself to go inside. I actually have to give myself a pep talk with each step I take, mentally forcing one foot in front of the other.

One hundred more steps, and you can rest.

Ninety-five more steps, and you can sleep.

Ninety more steps, and you can pass out.

Classical music wafts through the house, worming its way downstairs like a slithering snake. If he is sick, he’s obviously not as sick as me, because the soothing music does nothing but split my head wide open. Tossing my bags on the kitchen island, I trudge up the back staircase. The music grows louder, piping through the surround sound of our master bedroom.

Edward’s obsession with classical music has completely soured me to the genre. But I still listen to it. For him. That’s what marriage is. Give and take. Compromise. Right? So what if one of us happens to give more than the other. It can’t always be even. Right?

My marriage is just different than what I thought it would be is all. Based on my parents’ marriage, based on my grandparents’ marriage.

A coughing fit pulls me into its nasty grasp. Hacking up a huge spitball, I pull a tissue from the pocket of my shorts and spit into it. I quickly tuck it back in place before opening the bedroom door. Edward hates all things gross, anything to do with bodily functions. And that includes a used Kleenex. You should’ve seen him three years ago when I caught a stomach virus—he actually rented a penthouse suite at the nicest hotel in town. He claimed he needed to stay healthy for work, but I know he ordered non-stop room service and had an in-room massage and facial. Turning the doorknob, I shelve those thoughts as my mind immediately knows that blessed relief is literally only two seconds away. I’m gonna flop on that bed and beach myself like a walrus.

Huh.

I must be sicker than I thought.

I’m seeing things.

I’m seeing really bad things.

The music is so loud, they don’t hear me come in. But in all honesty, I don’t know if they would stop, even if they had heard me. My husband’s bare ass is flapping like a sheet in the wind. I can’t see the face of the naked woman bending on all fours across my bed, but I do see enough to recognize that it’s Edward’s executive assistant. Her massive, fake breasts are swaying back and forth, fighting a war against the vigor of my husband’s thrusts. Edward’s gripping her waist so tightly his knuckles are white, his cheeks red from exertion.

The golden afternoon sun shines through the window. The navy draperies softly billow underneath the register of the air conditioner. The brown ceiling fan blades swirl around and around and around. My vision clouds with black spots.

Why am I seeing so many colors?

Gold, navy, brown, black.

Gold, navy, brown, black.

Despite the ridiculous volume of the music, the sound of their skin echoes in my ears, shattering any hope I might’ve had that this is all a dream, a delirious vision conjured up by my feverish subconscious. Pump, slap. Pump, slap. The noise churns my stomach, and I fight against the urge to vomit. When the fingers of his right hand disappear between her ass cheeks, bile rises into my mouth.

My husband is having sex with another woman.

He’s cheating on me.

He never makes love to me like that.

He’s doing things with her that he never does with me.

Things that he’s insinuated are gross…you know, those bodily functions and all.

I wish I could say that I have enough common sense and grace to retreat, holding my head high. I wish I could say that I have enough gumption and dignity to demand they stop, get out of my bedroom, get out of my house. I wish I could say that I have enough fire and anger to beat them to a pulp, leaving them in a bloody mess on my three-hundred-dollar sheets.

But I don’t.

The cold medicine I took earlier has left me dizzy and lightheaded.

So, instead… I faint.

I pass out cold in the middle of my husband’s affair, and in my addled brain, I wonder if they’ll even notice long enough to stop having sex.