Sketch by Jacqueline Ann Winter

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Visceral Affair Audio

Her nervous toes danced under the table. She thought, on this dismal day in South West London, the time had come to confess her state of tangled affairs. She could, given the spotlight for long enough, call attention to quite a few issues plaguing the Longley family dynamic. But instead, she thought it best to focus solely on the whole-bodied emotional affair she had been having with her parents’ neighbors’ 33 year-old son, Kingsley Stone, whom she had met three years prior at an equally dismal Christmas dinner. The families had come together in their typically matte fashion, and her husband Bill had his shirt ironed crisp and wore a smile only she could forget.

Everyone complimented them on how well Bill was doing. The typical “oh fabulous, Bill,” was tossed around as his extended family sucked dry the words that fell from his mouth. The compliments were usually followed with a glance over to her, as if to signal that she, too, deserved an accolade for being, well, his wife. Then came the how-slim-you-look and the how-grown-up-the-kids-are comments until she couldn’t take any more, and so she swiftly and quietly shuffled into the kitchen. Without anything else to do, she folded napkins into the origami shapes she taught her 1st grade class, but this time, her hands shook. She folded each sheet of paper in the way one peels the label off a beer bottle on a first date. Slowly. Panicky. Unaware.

She glanced at her watch three or four times per origami shape created. Laughter came from the other room. She checked the oven clock to make sure her watch was right. “Margaret! Margaret!” she heard, shaking her out of a daze. She paced from stove to pantry, pantry to stove, ignoring the calls, checking her watch again in between. “Margaret, you must come sit down. We are all waiting for you and the lamb is getting cold!” cried her mother from the adjoining room. So she put her origami down and slid her feet like a child across the kitchen floor and into the dining room. She pulled out the seat next to Bill and saw her kids in the playroom. In another world, but in the playroom. It’s the right thing to do, she thought. Mr. Franze said if I confess, I’ll feel better. Confess and feel better, confess and feel better.

Kinglsey lived in Sheffield, too far for her to visit. He came back when he had the time off and for the holidays. Their infrequent emails turned frequent, and before long their texts turned into phone calls. They’d never slept together, never even kissed. Their very occasional touches lingered yet crossed no boundaries. But their relationship filled emotional pockets she didn’t know were empty. It was Kinglsey who she confided in; it was his opinion she would seek, his texts she looked forward to. And the more successful her husband became, the less she thought he noticed her discontent.

But as is typical of stoic English culture, emotions were noticed but swept under the rug. Bill already knew about the long distance phone calls. He knew every cigarette break she took outside was to call her “friend.” Bill patiently waited and waited. He waited for her to bottle up her secret so tight she would have to burst even if she only intended to let a little air out. He understood the confession was for her own redemption. For her sake, not his. So, as good husbands do when they find out their wives have sought attention elsewhere, he sat there silently and watched her fret. He loved her, but he let her fret. In fact, he took delight in this floundering. He watched her nervous toes dance under the table.