"Where Are You" and Other Alibis

“Where are you?” my hubby texts.

The pit in the stomach.

Holy shit. Where am I? Where do you think I am?

Existential dilemma aside, where can I say I am? Umm, store? Errands? Work? The unsaid issue is “WHY AREN’T YOU HOME?”

I’m usually 100% spot on with pulling excuses out of my ass. Damn good at it, too. I have four alibi’s lined up at all times. After that, it’s practice — years of stepping out.

“Went to the gym and then errands. Be home soon,” I text back.

This is where I should develop a conscience.

BUT NO, I DON’T.

I have gym gear always in my trunk for a reason. This is it. Go to a gas station and change outfits. Do suburban mom. Take off slutty lingerie (not that he’d ever notice). I also have bags from local stores in my car hidden with stuff I would buy. Plausible decoys. A shirt I meant to return. Or a gift I was buying for a birthday.

“K. Are you coming home for dinner? Because the steaks are almost done,” hubby texts.

Now I feel guilty. Damn it!

Not because I have another man’s cum inside of me. NO, because he cooked dinner for his dutiful wife. He has no idea what I had said to my lover just a few hours ago.

“Give it to me, babe. Fuck me harder. I need you deep. Make me cum!”

“Damn baby, I always do. You know that,” my guy answered.

I should blush at those memories, yet I don’t. Instead, I crave my lover’s touch. As much as possible — every day.

“You know I have to leave! I’ll be late! It’s almost 5:30,” I said as I snuggled in his arms from sheer exhaustion because of hours of debauchery.

“I hate the clock,” he sighs.

“Yeah, so do I.”

“I want to have you all the time.”

Time. The enemy of all affairs. There’s never enough time.

Except even I feel bad for being late.

What alibi can I use for being behind schedule again? Won't my hubby see how patently false my lies are getting?

I’ve been neglecting my home life in this affair. Not doing what I usually do daily. Sometimes I put in the effort, yet most of the time, I am “checked out” at home. I just don’t care like I used to.

Dust? Eh, whatever. Laundry? It’ll get done eventually. Does the poor dog need a bath? It can wait. Work? Put it off. What I won’t wait for is to get laid. To see my lover. To go out on outings together. That I don’t wait for. No more putting off my pleasure or happiness!

I want more of him and less of my hubby. That’s the simple truth.

The “where are you?” texts are becoming more common.

Where am I really?

Halfway between coming and going. That’s where I am. I’m stuck in this limbo. How much do I care to keep up the facade? Or am I done with pretending?

Can my husband sense I have one foot out the door? Or more like both feet?

The endless excuses and lies I come up with will eventually catch up with me; I know it. My spouse can’t be that blind. Or maybe he is. He thinks everything is just “fine.”

I’ll be ready for the next “where are you?” text. Maybe with the truth.

“I’m out with my lover, and I won’t be home.”