He pulled into the drive after a half day at the office.
Home early to a wife who was gorgeous, flawless.
He set his briefcase down next to her short note;
"I'll meet you in the bedroom..." She wrote.


He smiled and shrugged out of his designer suit jacket,
Balled up her note and threw it in the waste basket.
He pulled opened the fridge and pushed it shut with his leg.
He laughed softly at another note on the door: "We need eggs."


He poured himself a glass of sweetened ice tea,
Took a sip, let out a sigh, content as can be.
He strolled through the house, picking up the clothes that she'd left
All over the floor; her underwear and bra no less.


With a smile he followed the trail of clothes to their room,
The sheets were tangled; the air thick with a strange perfume.
In the corner, a man's jeans and belt that were not his own.
Piled with hers, they were carelessly thrown.


He picked them up, they felt heavy as lead.
He dropped their clothes, in a heap, on their bed.
The truth was there, a truth he refused to digest.
The shower was running; his heart froze solid in his chest.


Coldness embraced him, so deep no amount of heat could ever thaw.
He turned the other cheek, made himself forget what he saw
And turned his back on their laughter, he walked out to the car.
They needed eggs.