- The Storried Platform
‘The Idiot’s Guide To Getting Away With Cheating On Your Wife’ – By Dean O. Arutoghor
Almost as soon as Veronica and I had finished having sex, I rushed to the bathroom. I had to catch a train home in exactly 30 minutes so time was of the essence.
With some wet wipes (unscented), I carefully wiped Veronica’s lipstick off my lips, cheeks, ears, neck and wherever else she had kissed me.
Then I sprayed on the same deodorant my wife had seen me spray on that morning before leaving for work. I had made sure Veronica had one in her bathroom for occasions like this. I was liberal with it so that it could overwhelm any traces of Veronica’s perfume that had rubbed off on me. Even if the wife asked why my deodorant had a stronger smell than it had when I left, I would claim I had sprayed some on at work before leaving as I could smelt bad due to running around a lot at work on a hot summer’s afternoon.
I stood in front of the full-length mirror and checked to see whether there were any scratch or bite marks or stray blonde hair on me (my wife is brunette).
Whilst I was in the bathroom, Veronica was ironing my clothes (I was wearing them when we were rolling around on the floor) to make sure they were as crisp as when my wife saw me leave home in this morning.
I slipped on my clothes and before stepping into my shoes, I lifted my feet to make sure I had not stepped on one of Veronica’s hair lying on her bedroom carpet. It is minor details like that trip amateurs up.
Before leaving, I gave myself a pat on the back for a job well done.
Don’t take your effing phone to your rendezvous because as I opened Veronica’s front door to make a dash for the train station, there, in her raging glory, was my wife standing on the doormat.
She held up her phone and gave it a shake. ‘You bastard. I knew you were up to something,’ she snarled.
‘But…But…How did you…’ I stammered.
‘I planted a spyware on your bloody phone and it led me right to you. Not so clever now, are we?’
‘Listen, darling, it’s not what it looks like. I can explain…’
She raised a hand to shush me. ‘Save it,’ she snapped. ‘You can explain yourself to your kids.’ With that, she stepped aside and behind her were my three young children in the back seat of our car. Their little faces, a mixture of disappointment and anger, were pressed against the window.
By Dean O. Arutoghor
Almost as soon as Veronica and I had finished having sex, I