A Deleted Telegram Account Tells The Truth

“Hope you are happy,” I texted during the holidays.

Not read.

I had hesitated even to send it. “Should I?” I wondered out loud. He wasn’t going to see it for days; I knew that much. He checked his Telegram profile rarely.

And why should he?

He was single. Free. Unencumbered. He didn’t need a “secret” messaging app for regular dating. Whereas I did, of course. I couldn’t use standard messaging for a lover.

“Why is that number showing up on our shared plan all time?” is NOT something you want happening. No ammunition is needed for divorce proceedings. When you are cheating, it’s all OPSEC, all the time. So how to hide our shady shit becomes paramount.

I remember when I had asked him to join Telegram.

“Want to try Telegram instead of Kik?” I asked. Cause Kik sucks.

“Hell, yeah,” he replied. He wasn’t stupid. The endless pop-up ads. The delay and glitches. Kik was purely a screening device. Now that he was a bonafide “lover,” I wanted to move to a more reliable and workable texting app.

“I have them all — Signal, Kik, Telegram, WhatsApp, carrier pigeon, smoke signals…ya know,” I texted on Kik. “LOL.”

“Before we resort to bat signals, I’ll check out Telegram,” he wrote. “I think I love you,” I joked.

The irony was that it came awfully close to love for me, at least.

“A little early for that,” he texted.

“I only love you for your mouth and dick, don’t worry!” I joked. “Your brain is optional.”

Our running inside joke was that “love” wasn’t part of the equation. No exclusivity, no jealousy.

We were free. Well, I could pretend I was free, but I wasn’t. I was 100% married. And not in an

“open” relationship, by any means. My actions were more “cheating whore” not “loyal wife.” “Are you ok with this?” waving my hand at the patio under the hot sun I had asked at our first meeting.

I don’t think he understood the importance of my this. “Ya know, me cheating and all that.”

“You’re getting what you need,” he wrote. “Yeah, I’m good with meeting you. Let’s see what happens.”

And it happened. I sometimes think about that first lunch date. Wondering if he felt the same chemistry. Or was it just horniness? “She’s willing, and this is so damn easy!”

“What do you think?” I asked when we were sitting together in the park, unwilling to return to our cars and respective lives.

He took my hand, “I think I’m game if you are. No pressure to make a quick decision. We can work at your pace.”

I wanted to be naked. ASAP. But I didn’t say it.

Too much Pandemic togetherness was driving me batty. I might lose it if I had one more month of forced isolation without sex. The everyday toil of keeping a household operating without a physical outlet was wearing me down.

“Nothing at home, huh?” he asked.

“I wish. Or, I wouldn’t be here.” I wondered about his dating. “How about for you?”

“Pandemic makes dating almost impossible.” But, he added, “and we have our needs, right?” “Yes, we do.”

“We’re far from each other. How will this work?” I asked, humoring myself. We were long-distance. He’d have to travel over two and a half hours to me. “I can’t come to you. That damn Easy Pass is a dead giveaway!”

“I understand. I’ll come to you. We’ll make it a day together, spread farther apart.”

A day in bed sounded like heaven--making white hotel sheets messy. Not worrying about anything but our desire. “So, sign me up, please!” I laughed. Like a mini-vacation when none were on the horizon.

“No checking for texts!” I whispered. “Just you and I making each other crazy.” “Yes. I can make that work,” he grinned.

The advantage of single guys. No intrusive wife to answer to.

“Hey babe, where are you?” and “When are you coming home?” “I’ll be leaving soon…” and other lies.

“Shhh, she’s on the phone,” I’ve had other lovers beg. Their hands over their mouths in a silent signal. I’d laugh inwardly. I know where that mouth has been.

“Got it. No worries. I know the drill.”

And I did. I had been cheating long enough to know all the ins and outs of adultery. Nothing was verboten. I had seen it all. The jaded and familiar leer. The endless men looking for action on the side.

“Looking for fun? What gets you off?” men message. “I can help you with that.”

I bet you can.

She’ll do everything my wife won’t, they hope.

“Ever do this before?” I asked my single guy.

“Not really. But I know all about it. My ex cheated on me.”

“No revenge thing happening?”

“Naw, we divorced years ago. But I get where you are coming from.”

The specter of infidelity spared practically no one, I realized. It was everywhere—just hidden away under the surface of every relationship.

“All the women I date want to ‘get serious’ after a month or two. “I’m not into that. I don’t believe in traditional monogamy.”

“And then they try to change your mind, right?” I laughed. “Yup.”

An endless debate over whether marriages work. A long-standing bitter union of over two decades wasn’t making me feel especially pro-monogamy. “You won’t get a ‘let’s get serious’ talk from me!” I joked.

And, yet, after almost a year together, I wanted more.

“I think I’m falling for you,” I whispered while wrapped up in his arms.

“Well, let’s back right up. This isn’t going to happen.”

“I know it’s never going to happen. So you don’t need to remind me. I’m just feeling attached.” “This isn’t where we started,” he sighed as he looked at me.

Yeah, it’s just fun and fucking. Got it.

“I’m not getting divorced. I’m just telling you how I feel. No worries,” as I extricated my sticky body from his. I headed into the hotel bathroom to wash away the smells that would give me away. “I’ll clean up…”

It was the beginning of the end.

“I’ll be heartbroken if we end,” I texted a month later. “I really care about you.”

“I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but I think that my only choices are between hurting your feelings now or later.”

“And you chose now,” I wrote.

“We weren’t having the affair that you wanted us to have. That wasn’t going to change. And while I know you’ll be saddened, I hope you will get back out there and find someone who gives you what you need and then some.”

I couldn’t even imagine having someone else. No one else would compare. I’ll never get over you, I thought.

“Are you going to delete your Telegram account?” I asked.

“No, if you want to talk, we’ll make time for a conversation.”

A conversation that never arrived. We were done. None of my “I miss you” messages were effective.

Now, I’m back to checking Telegram--every day, I’m on it. Communicating incognito with my adultery friends and a new lover. So, I noticed my ex’s profile was marked “Deleted Account.”

Huh?….

Last seen a long time ago.

That’s the automated message Telegram writes. But, boy, it felt like it.

“Can we be friends at least??” I had texted at Christmas.

“Of course. How are you doing?” my ex replied.

“I’m seeing someone. All good right now.”

“Glad to hear.”

“Are you dating?”

“I don’t think you want to know about my dating life,” he wrote. “Probably not.”

I was still too invested and jealous. Even now, after half a year had passed. He had moved on.

Account Deleted.

He wasn’t going to be a “friend” or even an occasional check-in.

“Happy V day,” I had wished him. He never responded. When we were together, I bought him a special book for Valentine’s. The New York Times, Modern Love essay collection, True Stories of Love, Loss, and Redemption. I had wrapped it with a note on the inside cover with my name. “To my sounding board in all things.”

For the man I should have married, I wanted to write. But I couldn’t. It was just cheating, after all.

“These are great!” I had said, handing him the small hardcover book. Great was an understatement. Profound, tear-jerking, provocative. They were all that I hoped for in writing. Essays so beautiful that I wondered how they got on the page.

“I hope you enjoy reading them.” “I will,” he said.

“How I wish I could write like that,” I said out loud.

Yet, I couldn’t write about adultery or cheating for Modern Love. None of the submissions could be anonymous. An enormous risk. Blowing-up-my-life-level threat. What if it was accepted by some miracle? The chances were slim, of course. I wasn’t on the Modern Love level.

They received 8000 submissions per year for 52 slots. “One percent odds, being generous,” is what the editor, Daniel Jones, has written. 99.3542% losing rate--not bad at all.

Well, I wasn’t deluding myself. Only in my affairs, snort.

“Thanks, babe,” my ex said as he took the book. “I’ll tell you which I liked.” He never did.

We never discussed even one of the essays.

Maybe, it’s just as well. This wasn’t a “Modern Love” masterpiece. It was just fantastic sex and plenty of lust. Nothing more. A year-long affair between a single guy and a married woman.

The deleted account was the evidence.

No warning. No goodbye.

“This user was seen last a long time ago.”

And, now, I’m writing about it.