THAT’S THE ANSWER. Why am I acting like a love-struck junior high school girl? Maybe I’m bored. Maybe I’m looking for excitement. When’s the last time John and I have gone on a date, just the two of us, without the kids? I can’t even remember.

As soon as he gets home, I steal a kiss before the kids get a hold of him. I let him chat and play with them for a while. He gives them chocolates, candy, and pens. It’s always so exciting when Daddy gets home from his signings — he always has something for them.

The kids are busy with their treats. He winks at me and pulls me in for a hug.

“I missed you,” I tell him.

He kisses me — a quick peck on the lips. “I’ve missed you too, baby.”

“I had this great idea,” I say. “I think we should go on a date… just us two. Fancy dinner, and maybe a movie.”

He grins playfully. “Sounds like a plan.”

“Great,” I cheer. “I’ll call Alberto’s. Tomorrow night?!”

“Sure, I’m open,” he says. He’s in a great mood tonight. And so am I. We’re great. We’re rock solid. I don’t even know why I’ve been carrying on the way I’ve been. What was I thinking?

I’ve worn one of my sexiest outfits; a little red flowy dress with a scoop neckline, paired with fabulous boots and a black clutch.

I put on the diamond earrings John gave me on our last anniversary, and for the final touch, I dab on some red lipstick to match the dress.

When I step out of our en-suite, John does a double-take and whistles.

I laugh. “You like?”

His eyes are hungry as they slowly trace the curves of my body, from the neckline of my dress all the way down to my toes. “Yes… very much so.”

“You don’t look too shabby yourself,” I tell him. He looks hot actually; dark pressed pants, and a checkered shirt, open at the collar. His golden hair is slicked back, and he’s clean shaven, as usual.

He inches closer to me and pulls me into his arms. He kisses me sweetly on the temple. “Too bad Anna is already here, we could have a little fun,” he says playfully.

I smile. Yes, we could.

“I know. Darn her,” I joke. “We should get going.”

He sighs loudly. “Yes, let’s go.” He kisses me again. “To be continued… I guess.”

My scallops look delicious and I can’t wait to have a taste. His steak is so bloody, it turns my stomach a little. We’re both drinking red, and I already feel the buzz; the heat on my insides, and the blush on my cheeks. We’re talking about the old days — we’ve promised ourselves that we wouldn't talk about the kids or the house tonight.

As we dig into our meals, the conversation moves to his work; the signings, his latest release, and the new book he’s currently working on. Our conversations typically center on him — it’s just the way it is. I don’t have much to offer most of the time. “So I’m painting the Golden Gate Bridge,” I’ll say, “from that photo I took when we were there.” He’ll nod and ask me to show it to him when I’m done. Conversation done.

“So I made a new artist friend on Instagram,” I say casually between bites. I don’t know why I’ve decided to mention Eli. Maybe I’m just trying to make conversation, or perhaps I’m feeling a bit guilty. “Paints amazing watercolors,” I add.

“That’s nice,” he says cutting into his steak. “But I bet she’s nowhere as good as you.”

I smile — he’s always complimenting my work. When we have new friends over, he’s the first to show them my new pieces on the walls.

I laugh a little. “You’d be surprised.”

“So what have you been working on?” he asks.

I’m doing a still life series, scenes of downtown,” I explain, “Alleyways, doors and windows, and the like. I love the architectural details on that street… so beautiful.”

He grins. “So that must be why you practically live there,” he teases. He’s right — it’s where I meet my friends for coffee, it’s where I take my walks, where I shop. I love the quaint little stores — they’re so much more interesting than those big box stores which keep popping up everywhere.

This is nice.

We’re having a nice conversation, and John looks so handsome tonight. It’s times like these when I can remember us, years ago, when we first fell in love. Before kids, work… life. I see the man I fell in love with. If truth be told, I haven’t seen him much lately.

But unfortunately, things take a turn when we get to talking about Maeve’s wedding.

“She has us wearing butter yellow dresses, can you believe it?” I’m saying over dessert.

John laughs. “But I bet you still look great in it. I can’t wait to see you in it.”

I smile. “Actually, the color kind of suits me. It’s not that bad, but it’s one of those strapless numbers, and I just know I’ll be worried all night about nip slip.”

He laughs out loud. “Oh, we should all be so lucky.”

“That’s the problem with having D cups… you can’t wear those little numbers.”

He cocks a brow, and a playful smile slowly traces his lips. “Hell, I’m certainly not complaining.”

I blush a little, and I know I’m being silly. But it’s nice that my husband still manages to make me blush, even after all these years.

“So anyway, the wedding is the third weekend of September,” I say, reaching for my almost empty glass of red.

His face falls. “Oh, damn, Gabbie.”

“Damn what?!”

“I have a signing that weekend,” he tells me. “In New York.”

Of course he does. He always does. I feel my blood heating slowly to a boil, and my cheeks flush. He can’t be doing this to me. I don’t ask for much — the least he could do is be there for me once in a while. Now, I’ll be alone at the wedding. Well, at least I’ll have the kids.

“I’m so sorry, Gabbie,” he says. “This event was planned ages ago.”

Yes, he’s always sorry. ‘Sorry’ doesn’t mean anything anymore.

We finish dessert in silence. We leave the restaurant without a word, and the drive home is quiet. There’s an old Céline Dion song on the radio. I wonder if Céline has to put up with this shit. I wonder if she’s married, and remember that I’d recently read in one of those tabloids at the grocery store, the ones I scan while I wait in line, that her husband passed away not long ago. I wonder what it would be like if John died. What would life be like? Would it be worse? Or better? Surely worse. I shake my head. I can’t believe I’m fantasizing about John’s death. Okay, so I’m a bit peeved with him at the moment, but not that peeved.

“The kids are fast asleep already. They were exhausted,” Anna tells us “How was your night?” she asks cheerfully.

I plaster on a forced smile. “It was nice,” I tell her as I dig into my purse for my wallet.

As soon as she leaves, I peel off my boots, and tell John that I’m going to bed – my sexy outfit gone to waste.

“C’mon,” he says. “Let’s say goodnight to the kids, and then cuddle in bed.”

I roll my eyes. By ‘cuddle in bed’, he means sex. John is not much of a cuddler. I usually don’t get cuddles unless there’s sex either before or after.

I trudge upstairs to kiss the kids, and head to my bedroom. I lock myself in the en-suite, and check my Instagram. I told myself I would try to ignore him, but I just can’t. I’m disappointed when there are no messages from him, not even a new post on his feed. I scroll through my camera roll, and find the picture I’m looking for — a photo of Elsie and me. I don’t have a lot of photos with her, and this is my favorite — we’re cuddling on the sofa, and she looks adorable, and I look really nice in a pink fuzzy sweater, despite the fact that my hair is messy and my face is bare.

I send him the photo, and write a quick message below.

I don’t feel guilty at all. It’s just a photo of me and the cat. And John is a selfish jerk. So there.

I wash my makeup off — those smoky eyes are a bitch to clean off. I brush my teeth, and slip out of my dress.

When I leave the en-suite, John is sitting on our bed, unbuttoning his shirt. He does look kind of sexy... I turn my gaze away and reach into my dresser for the least sexy nightgown I can find. I find the one my mother gave me a few years ago — it’s bulky, gramma-ish, with little flowers. John says that the mere sight of it makes him go soft.

I slip it on, and John starts laughing. “Oh, so it’s like that, is it?” he says playfully.

I turn and glare at him. “Yes, it is.” I’m drowning but a smile threatens to escape — the situation is kind of funny.

He slithers up to me on the bed, and gently runs his fingers through my hair. He sweeps it to the side and kisses the nape of my neck — he knows that’s one of my buttons. Such a manipulator.

Damn, him. I don’t stand a chance if he’s going to pull these kind of moves. “We’re not having sex,” I say, resolute.

“Really?!” he says playfully as his hand travels up the curve of my leg and pushes up my flannel nightgown. He gets dangerously close to my sweet spot.

I close my eyes. I want this, but I don’t want to give in — I’m still so mad at him.

He pulls the fabric up and over my back, and trails kisses down the curve of my hip where he bites gently. It feels so damn good, and I’m in the mood. I’ve been on the mood all night.

He reaches for my breasts and cups one in his hand. I arch my back into him and let out a soft moan.

He’s won. I want this. I completely give in to him; every inch of my skin surrenders to him. But when I close my eyes, it’s not him I see.

I see Eli’s beautiful face. Those magnetic eyes, and the way I felt when they fixed me. The strong nose, those sensual full lips. And most of all, I see his smile, the way he lit up at my words. When was the last time I felt that special? I can’t remember.

When John’s hands glide over me, I imagine they’re Eli’s hands. When his lips press against the small of my back, I imagine their Eli’s lips. His hands dig into my hips and he flips me around on the bed. I’m on my knees, and he pulls me in close. When he peels off my black silky thong, I still see Eli. When he enters me, I close my eyes and let my mind wander.

My husband is not fucking me. A beautiful stranger is.