Adultery(48)

Before I go to sleep, I masturbate and have two orgasms, one after the other.





IT’S THE same scene today as it is every morning: my husband reads the daily news on his iPad; the children sit ready for school; the sun streams through the window; and I pretend to be worried when I’m actually scared to death one of them suspects something.

“You seem happier today.”

I seem happier, and I am, but I shouldn’t be. My experience yesterday was a risk for everyone, especially for me. Is there some underlying suspicion in his comment? I doubt it. He believes everything I tell him. Not because he’s a fool—far from it—but because he trusts me.

And that just makes me more upset. I’m not trustworthy.

Actually, yes, I am. I was led to that hotel on false pretenses. Is that a good excuse? No. It’s awful, because no one forced me to go there. I can always claim that I was feeling lonely and wasn’t getting the attention I needed, just understanding and tolerance. I can tell myself that I need to be defied, confronted, and questioned about what I do. I can claim that this happens to everyone, even if only in their dreams.

But deep down, what happened is very simple: I went to bed with a man because I was dying to do it. Nothing more. No intellectual or psychological justification. I wanted to screw. End of story.

I know people who married for security, status, and money. Love was the last thing on the list. But I married for love.

So why did I do what I did?

Because I feel lonely. Why?

“It’s so nice to see you happy,” he says.

I say that yes, I really am happy. The autumn morning is beautiful, the house is tidy, and I’m with the man I love.

He gets up and gives me a kiss. The children, even without quite understanding our conversation, smile.

“And I’m with the woman I love. But why are you telling me this now?”

Why not now?

“It’s the morning. I want you to tell me that again tonight, when we’re in bed together.”

My God, who am I?! Why am I saying these things? So he won’t suspect anything? Why don’t I just behave like I do every morning and play the efficient wife tending to her family’s well-being? What are these displays of affection? If I start to be too affectionate, it may raise suspicions.

“I can’t live without you,” he says, returning to his place at the table.

I’m lost. But, strangely, I don’t feel the least bit guilty about what happened yesterday.





WHEN I get to work, the editor-in-chief commends me. The article I suggested was published this morning.

“We’ve received a lot of e-mails for the newsroom, praising the story with the mysterious Cuban man. People want to know who he is. If he allows us to print his address, he’ll have work for quite a while.”

The Cuban shaman! If he reads the newspaper he’ll see he never told me any of what is in the article. I took everything from blogs on shamanism. Apparently, my crises aren’t limited to marital problems; now I’m starting to slip professionally.

I explain to the editor-in-chief about the moment the shaman looked in my eyes and threatened me if I revealed who he was. He says I shouldn’t believe in that sort of thing and asks if I can give his address to just one person: his wife.

“She’s been pretty stressed.”

Everyone’s pretty stressed, including the shaman. I can’t promise anything, but I’ll talk to him.

He asks me to call right now. I do it, and I’m surprised by the Cuban man’s reaction. He thanks me for being honest and for keeping his identity a secret and praises my knowledge on the subject. I thank him, tell him about the reaction to the article, and ask if we can arrange another meeting.

“But we talked for two hours! The material you have must be more than enough!”

That’s not the way journalism works, I explain. What was published used very little from those two hours. Most of it I had to research. Now I need to approach the subject in a different way.

My boss is still standing next to me, listening to my side of the conversation and gesturing. Finally, when the shaman is almost ready to hang up, I insist that the article was lacking. I need to explore the female role in this “spiritual” quest, and my boss’s wife would like to meet him. He laughs. I will never break the deal I made with him, but I insist that everyone knows where he lives and the days he works.

Please, take it or leave it. If you don’t want to take the conversation further, I will find someone who will. There is no shortage of people claiming to be experts in treating patients on the verge of nervous breakdown. Your method is different, but you aren’t the only spiritual healer in the city. Many others, mostly Africans, have contacted us this morning looking to bring visibility to their work, earn money, and meet important people who could protect them in the event of a possible deportation case.