Originally published on Call of the Quean
Dear Hot Husband:
It was 2019, we were living in Atlanta. It had been a few days since we discussed the idea of finding someone you could enjoy without me. I went ahead and made the plans, sharing only the time and date, and encouraged you to just go with it.
When she entered, you took her jacket. The night was unfashionably cool. Beneath she wore a pink mini-dress and platforms — a kind of 90s dream come true. The shiny material clung to her curves, and you pained at the sight of her beauty. Her hair was long, cascading; her smile, warm and tormenting. She was joyful and comfortable from the first moment, which I knew you’d appreciate.
“Hi, I’m Molly.”
You gave her a quick tour of our one-bedroom apartment. The candles were already lit, dinner waiting to be served, but culture kicked in, and you brought out wine and les amuse bouche. You let your French charm do the work.
When you took a seat at the dining room table, cheersing to one another above the flicker of candlelight, she could sense your nervousness.
“Your wife seems to know you quite well. She was really excited about tonight.”
