Singed Synapses and Deranged Dendrites

The Apple of My Eye (#desire)

I could call you the apple of my eye. It would make others chuckle. Everyone except my wife I suppose.

My wife is going to kill me.

It's just that you were so sweet I couldn't resist you. You were beautiful, sitting alone, with nobody else around. And a man has needs. He has desires that must be satiated. It is just in our nature.

And there was noone around to help me check my impulses. Sure, I'm a grown man. I should have self control, but I was feeling a little blue, like life was dull and uninteresting. There was nothing to look forward to except work on Monday and I dread that. 

You changed all that for me, if only for a few moments of pleasure. Oh, they were so wonderful. And even though I know now (and knew it at the time) that I'll pay the consequences, I'd do it all again. It was worth it. You were that good.

The taste of you on my lips...a little slice of heaven for an old man. Don't I deserve it after all? I'm a good person. I do everything right. Or at least I try to most of the time. But I'm no saint. I never set out to be. I'm only human. I know God will forgive me.

But my wife won't.

Ugh, there is no way to hide my indiscretion. She will read my guilty face the moment she walks in the door. Like some kind of a witch, she can read my mind. Not that I don't love my wife. I love my wife. Without my wife we wouldn't have even had our little tryst. 

I'll bear her wrath. I've done it before and I'll do it again. Like I said, I'm no saint.

But I'll dream of you forever, that's how lovely you were. I even feel a little nauseous after what I did, but that is to be expected when you have been really naughty. Maybe God won't forgive me and I'll have a heart attack tonight. 

If I do, my wife will probably tell me it serves me right.

I could try to repent. Pray for forgiveness. Flog myself with the rhubarb that grows in the garden or some other abhorrent vegetable. Offer to rub my wife's feet. Maybe vacuum. She really gives me the guilt trip that she does all the vacuuming. How long have we been married? 

Long enough that hearing her car now turing into the drive it, I know it is time to face the music. 

"Hi honey, did you have a nice brunch with the ladies?" I ask.

She stares at me in stoney silence. Tipped off by my feigned enthusiasm for her ladies group, she is now studying the guilt that must be clearly written across my face. She stalks directly into the kitchen–I'm hosed.

"You bastard, you ate the whole apple pie!"