One Side or Another of the Forked-Tongue

She said that her best friend (notably not me) had an extremely trying day.  The friend had learned that both her grade-school best freind, with whom she's been having an affair, and her mother-in-law were diagnosed with cancer within a day of each other.  That should have been my first clue, the first warning bell.  My wife's discussed this friend often enough, made clear that her friend did not approve of her mother-in-law or her pathology for embezzling Girl Scout cookie money from her daughter, that concern over a diagnosis of cancer would bring such overwhelming and instant grief.  Nonetheless, I disregarded the bells and whistles and continued listeneing as she said that she was going to run to WalMart with this friend because she needed to talk.  That was 10:30pm.  By 2:45am I was quite certain that story was a ruse; boring as our town may be, only the truly brain-dead and desperate would subject themselves to the manufacturer-abusing bargain aisles of WalMart in excess of four hours.  Indeed, my suspicions were growing solid when I texted her around midnight to buy more coffee, replying that there was another can in the cupboard with far too many 'lol's' to be reasonable, it just wasn't that damn funny unless you were the party duping the inquirer.

I spoke with her breifly around six in the morning, after she had apparently been back for two hours, awakened by the cackle of the White Trash Witch from across the street; funny how everyone must tiptoe about for a three-mile radius when her precious bratty whelp decides to go to bed around two in the morning, but no such courtesy is paid for me eight feet from my bedroom in my own home.  She said she stayed out because she's frustrated and irritated with our live-in, the one she told no one about until she was but a few miles from the house, inbound from Tennessee for eight months.  No mention of WalMart, no acknowledging the lie she blanketed over her own children in order to stay out for six hours after work with minimal familial interference.  Clearly irritated that I had emerged to see what had kept her out all night.

It's the lying that really gets to me, and not regarding this particular incident only.  When it's just the two of us, she vents her frustration and extreme dislike of both the White Trash Witch and the live-in.  Can't stand either one of them, the inability and ineptitude of the Witch's child-rearing coupled with her forcing her faults upon everyone who comes in contact with her son, holding the public at large responsible for his ill-manners while also defying their analisys of his beavior, the immense sloth and unfit physical proportion of the live-in, too tired and fat to pitch in with household chores, too satiated on her soldier husband's take home twice a month to find work, to slovenly even to get the homework for her online classes comleted on time.  When together, however, their all the best of friends, even calls the live-in her sister.  Makes me wonder what she says about me behind my back and to whom.  The only thing certain right now is that when her lips move, she's lying.

I suppose that's why, deep down, I still suspect she's having an affair.  If she lies about virtually everything else, why should I grant her trust in this, despite her angry and sarcasm-laden objections?  She claims she's not having sex with anyone, and to an extent I believe her.  She's not having straight sex with anyone, for the signs would take too long to eradicate, and she's not that thorough with anything short of her preparations to go out to her various gay clubs.  I think there was far more than humor behind her 'sister's' birthday presents to her this year, an assortment of penis-themed drinking vessels and lolliops and an extensive collection of small-scale vibrators.  If there's anyone I suspect of now being her paramour, sex or no sex, it would be this best freind of hers.  To the casual observer, I'm certain it appears as though she is the spouse, and I just a dirty little secret of a cling-on from her straight past, or a meal-ticket, or sugar daddy, or something else insignificant and duped. 

Last night, while she was out, via text message, she agreed to go out and do something with me, only me.  Her response was brief and seemingly enthusiastic as well as insulting to my intelligence; does she truly forget that I showed her how to program her phone, that I would be dim enough not to recognize the canned response I had programmed for her?  I'm honestly not certain if I'm going to hold her to this commitment, or if I'm just going to disappear for a few hours.  I want to go out with my wife, but the person who now occupies half my bed is hardly my wife.  She claims her changes come from within, and perhaps I still believe that, but I can't help but wonder what might have been had she never met the flock of faggot freaks with whom she now spends the vast majority of her time.  Unfair as it might be, I hate them, not for what they imagine they are, but for the seeds of deceit they've planted in the woman I love, or loved.  Don't really know what it is anymore.