I really don’t think it’s snooping when I get that twenty from his wallet, and take a few moments to stick my fingers in the slots behind the credit cards, and look into the other recesses. Who knows? I might find a receipt that should go in our envelope of IRS deductions. But what I do find is a foil wrapped condom and a slip of paper from a fortune cookie that has a phone number on it. Finding this condom makes me so upset that I tear it open and take it from the wrapping and tie it into about ten knots. Then I lay it on the kitchen table, slick and limp and knotted, where he will see it when he comes home. In all our fifteen years of marriage, I have never found anything suspicious at all in his pockets or wallet. Who does he think he’s kidding? I had my tubes tied after Zoe was born so we don’t need this.
The phone number on the fortune cookie paper has a San Francisco area code. Who in hell would he have Chinese food with and want to have sex with him? If anybody had ever seen John eat with chopsticks, they would never ever want to go to bed with him. He can’t even get the chopsticks to pick up a pot sticker. He stabs it in the side and then puts the whole think in his mouth. That is enough to turn your stomach. In fact, I remember on Tuesday, his shirt had a big stain of something red on it. That must have been the day he went to the Chinese place. He always manages to drip sauce down his front. It looked like sweet and sour sauce.
I think I’m going to call this number tomorrow. It’s too late right now. He will be home from work in half an hour. I want to see the look on his face when he sees the condom. Give him a little time to suffer, wish he hadn’t forgotten his wallet this morning, see if the slip from the fortune cookie is still in there. It won’t be.