Adventures in Adultery

Clay, a philanderer from San Francisco, writes:

My affairs became more about eating and driving than sex. Don’t get me wrong; the sex always starts out terrific and, probably because it’s illicit, can continue to be terrific for years. I spent a lot of time on the road, though, driving, always in a hurry. Weaving in an out of traffic I’d ask myself, “Is this really worth it? This driving and lying and worrying? The danger?” The answer was obvious.

To get to Maria’s I’d cross at least one bridge, merge onto a jammed freeway, get off twenty minutes later at an off-ramp that took me through a bad neighborhood, and then I’d pull up to her crappy little bungalow. Her street was anonymous but a few blocks away there was the sound of gunfire and breaking glass. I lived in the suburbs for Christ’s sake, I had a nice house, two new cars and a swimming pool, but three days a week I’d thread my way through unfamiliar streets, avoiding eye contact with pedestrians, worried about carjackings and stray bullets, so that I could be with Maria for two hours. Always two hours. Afterward, I’d retrace the same hazardous route home. I didn’t have the time to stop off for a drink so I kept a bottle of brandy in the glove box and I’d sip from it when I was safely back on the freeway.  Lots of times, when I pulled into my driveway, I was holding my breath. I was home, exhausted, undamaged, and slightly drunk, ready to face my wife. A component of the infidelity was the lie that I had to have a few drinks with coworkers and that’s why I was a little late. The brandy was a necessary, welcome part of the scheme.

 But the eating. Always eating. Goddamn, if you’re going to cheat get ready to eat an extra five or six meals a week. I weighed 240 pounds by the time everything came apart.

Maria and I always ate lunch at the same place. The Hunan Garden was a Chinese restaurant with 25 tables and a frothy, glittering pink ceiling. Our waitress, slim, shy and pretty, spoke very little English and welcomed us with a big smile, probably because I tipped well. Mr. Impressive. I was fat and exhausted, but boy, could I overtip. Maria always ordered Lemon Chicken. The place had a huge menu, lots of exotic items, but she only ate Lemon Chicken. I should have paid attention to that. Fifty items, plenty of variety, but she ordered the Lemon Chicken every time, no variation whatsoever.

After Maria and I had been seeing each other for a year we developed a routine.  Morning breaks in the company cafeteria, lunch at the Hunan Garden and two hours at her house on Tuesday, Wednesday and Friday afternoons. Infidelity for morons.

One Friday night my wife, Claire, had made dinner arrangements for us. We were going to join two other couples at a new restaurant in Kentwood. I’d had a very filling lunch of Walnut Shrimp; the lovely waitress brought an extra large helping because I left extra large tips. Maria ordered her Lemon Chicken. After lunch, stuffed and sleepy, I drove the perilous roads to Maria’s, dodging traffic and knots of jaywalkers; I was tense and worried that Maria would want to talk about our future. I was calculating how long it would take to get home in time to pick up my wife for dinner.

I knocked a little too hard and Maria opened the door. She wore a lavender negligee and was beautiful, at that moment, standing in the doorway, holding a cigarette in her long fingers and smiling. The drive, lunch, the worry and the lies all faded. We kissed for a few minutes and for the time it took to get to the bedroom my life was perfect and I was too overcome to think about consequences or risks. Afterward, we caught our breath and Maria murmured about love and the future. I knew there was no future, but she had constructed a story about my divorce and our marriage and a rented house and probably a dog. I agreed, nodded, and stole glances at the clock.

I was preoccupied with the dinner engagement and I told Maria that I needed to leave, sorry, but I had to meet a real estate appraiser to get a price on my house for possible sale. I knew each lie brought us closer to the time when everything would reach its inevitable rotten end.

We dressed. I kissed her long, lovingly, and I meant it, and then I broke traffic laws on the way home, sated from sex and full from lunch.

At 6:30, Claire was ready and waiting. I said I was sorry but I couldn’t get away from work earlier, I changed my shirt and drove, more driving, to Kentwood. The restaurant was a new Dim Sum place right on the water with a deck and beautiful views of the bay. Our friends waved and we all shook hands and pretended that our lives were going well. I belched some Walnut Shrimp, we ordered drinks and the waitress came to take our dinner orders.”

“Hello, good to see you. You want Walnut Shrimp? Want Lemon Chicken?”

It was the girl from the Hunan Garden. I tried to hide my shock.

She said, “I work here, too. Another job.”

“Pardon?”

“Hunan Garden and here.”

I shrugged.

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

She tried to help. She spoke slowly.

“Lemon chicken. You already eat. Walnut Shrimp.”

“I’m sorry, I, I don’t know what you mean. We’re here for dinner.”

She looked distressed, peeked at Claire, who raised an eyebrow and asked, “Does she know you?”

“No I’ve never seen her before. I’ve never been here. She’s confused. Or drunk.”

It had grown quiet at our table. I told the waitress, “Sorry, you are mistaken. I’ll have the Number 12 Dim Sum Dinner, please.”

Her face went slack and I thought she was going to cry. She took the rest of the orders and her hand shook as she jotted symbols on her pad, flicking glances at me. Claire was suspicious and our friends looked away. The waitress left our table; she was worried and confused. The expression on her face was the saddest thing I’ve ever seen and convinced me that, pretty soon, everything was going to hell; it was my fault and everyone would suffer. I even hurt waitresses.