“Bisous” My Ass!

Last we left our heroine..she was considering getting a divorce, but let’s be honest, not really. If I really wanted a divorce, there was nothing stopping me. Besides children, money, and the prospect of dating with IBS.

But then the merde hit the fan. (Did I mention that my husband is French?) Maxime always leaves his iPhone face down when he charges it. Now why would anyone do that? ou would think that leaving it facedown would increase the chances of the screen getting scratched. All the talk-show hosts and outraged talk-show audiences would be moaning at me saying, “All the signs were there, you dumb ass.” So I did what any miserable wife would do. I waited until he was tucking in our daughter downstairs in her bunkbed and went through his texts.

A French name I didn’t recognize. Elodie. The word “bisous.” It means “kiss.” My heart feels punctured and heat is slowly leaking out. Anxiety spreading through my chest, up the back of my neck. I shouldn’t have looked. But I saw it. I get my computer. My fingers a little nervous, like I had too much coffee.

I type the address for the free online translator. He may stay downstairs a while. He may come back up now. I need to know before he takes the phone from my hand and comes up with some excuse. But I’m a fast typist and the translator gives me its robot version in time:

“Thank you for stop  the night ago. I can regret a circumstance. But I do not regret the kiss because of your beauty and charming.”

I barely finish. Trying to understand. Did they kiss? Did she stop it? Was he a sloppy kisser again, like with me, and she didn’t like it? Or did she say, “No you have a wife and children.” Or did she say, “Not now, the boss is coming.” Maxime is coming up. Computer in my lap, I’m double-checking the word “regret.”

“So? Who’s Elodie?” and I show him the phone screen.

He looks at it, somehow unable to read. He squeaks, “What?”

“I read your text.”

Again in a mouse voice, “Oh. What?”

Nothing gets by this cat-bitch. He is trapped. And he gets his little boy guilty look. Big brown eyes looking down and away. Like I’m supposed to feel sorry for him.

The kids are going to sleep so I can’t yell which would maybe use up some of the anxiety chemicals coursing through my body. I just whisper-yell, “It’s over!” I march into our bedroom with the computer in my hand, and promptly sign up for Match.com



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