Infidelity is always brought to light. Sooner or later, something slips or a little clue trickles out . . . someone always catches on. It happened to me today.
Typical morning routine: I was showered, legs were shaved and lotioned--all silky smooth. We were just getting intimate, my favorite jeans and I, when, at one touch of my dimpled thigh, Jeans froze up and refused to go any further with me. I playfully coaxed and even did a little sweet talking, hoping against hope that Jeans were just being coy. Jeans wouldn't budge. Jeans knew. My indiscretion with my longtime lover, Chocolate, could no longer be hidden. Jeans knew.
"It's not what it looks like . . . it was . . . well, it's just that . . . I didn't mean to . . . " Jeans weren't buying a word of it. Suddenly everything became clear. Jeans had had the vague suspicion that things weren't right between us. I had been avoiding Jeans, choosing instead garments like skirts (it felt like spring!) or sweats (I might go work out later.) Jeans were humiliated.
Jeans sat cold and distant in the drawer now, looking at me. Just looking at me and not saying a word. Jeans' body language, all folded crisply, said everything. "Haven't I always backed you up? Don't I always make you look good in public? Aren't I always available to you? What am I supposed to do now--just sit here and wait for you to get your act together?"
"Oh, Jeans, I'm sorry! I was just so tempted. I kept bumping into Chocolate everywhere--at the store, at the gas station, we always end up at the same parties. I just couldn't stop myself. Please, Jeans, I want you back! I'll do anything! I'll get professional help at the gym--anything!"
I begged and pleaded for a good half an hour. Jeans didn't give a rip. Jeans want nothing to do with me anymore.