The Affair Read Online Free

was thinking the same thing.
    We found a quiet booth in the back of Peking Palace. It felt so illicit sitting back there. Eddie pulled a little box out
     of his coat pocket. “Got something for you,” he said, smiling. I looked at his beaming face and I felt… I don’t know how to
     put this …
    I just felt this overwhelming pity for him. Yes, I’ve imagined slipping my hand inside his briefs. Yes, I’ve even concocted
     complicated stories in which his wife and my husband just happen to be on the same plane, which tragically explodes in flight.
     Yes, he makes every nerve ending in my body come alive just by walking into the room.
    But I never thought he’d actually give me presents. Gift giving comes with a relationship. We don’t have a relationship. Or
     do we? Do I want him to love me? Or just lust for me? Do I want him to be my second husband, or my first lover?
    So I take the box in my hand. I shake it. I try to smile. How could he know me well enough to buy me something I’d like? And
     what’s he doing buying me presents on his plant-guy salary? I open it and pray it’s not jewelry. I look. Oh no. It’s a tiny
     brass bust of Sigmund Freud.
    Poor Eddie. Does he think all therapists are Freudians? I’ve never been especially fond of Freudian theory (especially that
     penis envy nonsense). I could see Eddie looking at me with a hopeful, expectant look on his face. He so badly wanted to please
     me. I realized then: he’s really falling for me. I don’t want that. I don’t want his adoration. I want his body. I don’t want
     to see Eddie as a puppy. I want him as a wolf.
    After lunch, I ran into Diana in the rest room. We’re both fixing our makeup in the mirror. With her trademark arched eyebrow
     she says, “So how’s your garden stud?” I tried not to let her see the terror on my face. What, exactly, does she know? Then
     she says, “Has he shown you his hose yet?” I tried to sound light. “Good one, Diana. But you know I only have eyes for Roger.”
     She smirked but I left before she could say anything else.
    What’s really nerve-racking is that this woman is coming for dinner in six days! If she’s like this when she’s sober, what
     is she likely to say after she’s had a little wine?
    ’Til next time,

December 19
    The night I’d been dreading for weeks is finally over. I feel strafed. Almost everything that could have gone wrong, did.
     Pete woke up from his nap with a fever. My in-laws were supposed to take him for the night but he was so miserable I couldn’t
     bear to send him away. He spent most of the evening in my arms, sweaty and irritable, while I labored to reach around him
     with my fork. My period hit in the middle of dinner and leaked through my pants and onto the upholstered chair (I don’t think
     anyone noticed but I almost died when I saw the stain). I got my foot tangled up in the Christmas tree lights and pulled the
     tree down (Roger caught it before it hit the floor but two glass ornaments smashed).
    But none of this compared to the agony of havingDiana in my dining room for three and a half hours. Diana is what I call a “nonporous surface.” Every conversation is strictly
     one-way. She can talk about herself ad nauseam but has zero interest in other people, except to the extent that they have
     something to offer—if you can get her a courtside ticket to the basketball game, she’s your best friend.
    Worse than her self-absorption is her sadism. As I’m serving the salad she says, “These greens remind me … have you told Roger
     about your new friend?” I froze.
    “Which new friend is that, Diana?” Roger looked up quizzically, midbite.
    “You know, your
friend.”
I tried hard to seem confused. After a long, painful pause she said: “Maggie Belky, the new social worker. Nice girl.” Roger,
     uncharacteristically, must have been paying attention, because he said, “What does that have to do with greens?” Diana looked
     at me, smiling. “I