Our old friend The Whisky Widow writes…

I sadly remember the night that the affair began. I was anxiously awaiting my husband’s call to tell me what time he and his father would be arriving on the train. I had reluctantly agreed to pick them up after some whisky tasting event. I had to be at work early the next morning, and damn, it was getting late. The phone rang and I heard his father’s voice on the other end. My initial thought was that my husband didn’t want me to hear how intoxicated he was and made his father call me. I already had visions of a ride home steeped in the fumes of whisky and cigars while they recounted the entire evening to me – whisky by whisky…. by whisky.

So, I was completely unprepared when I heard his father say, “Honey, I think your husband has fallen in love with a 32-year-old.” My heart pounded. What do you mean, a 32-year-old?

And so it began. His passion for that spirited nymph was ignited, and there was nothing I could do about it. That was 8 years ago, and it’s been an uphill battle ever since. He and this audacious 32-year-old had a bond that I could not break.

To add to my misery, the 32-year-old had friends. Flirty blonds, with silky smooth, sun-kissed skin that smelled of salt water and ocean air. Fiery auburn beauties with full, cherry red lips that glistened with a kiss of sherry. Dark, mysterious lovers with long legs and smoky, velvety voices that spoke to him in languages I could not understand. I just can’t compete with such marvelous variety.

The ultimate betrayal is that he brought them into my home. Sure, he tried to hide them from me. First, they were hidden under his desk in his home office. Then the bedroom closet. Then he didn’t care if I knew. He used to sneak them into the house. Now he parades them in front of me like trophies from a battle that we never fought, daring me to raise my voice in protest against this insanity. But I remain silent.

Eventually, he made a home for them in our basement. And he has no shame. He proudly shows them off, introducing them to family and friends. When we have people over, all the men congregate and stare, awe-struck, at his spectacularly sinful collection.  My sisters-in-law and friends blame me. They think that I should never have let this happen. I’ve let it go too far.

But what they don’t know is that I have a secret.

As long my husband thinks he’s getting away with this debauchery, he’ll never guess that I too have been seduced by a few of his special prizes. Yes, these tantalizing temptresses have lured even me into their lair – more often than I care to admit. I am powerless against their charms. I cannot ignore the lip-smacking sweetness of cherry and maple syrup, the crisp fresh citrus, the earthy hints of grass and campfire, and the lingering finish of well worn leather – 80’s bomber jacket-style. These sexy spirits have consumed me whole.

So I’ll let my husband have his little romances. I’ll pick him up from the train station after he’s had one too many. I’ll even look the other way when he adds another naughty nymph to his little black book. Because I know that every time he parades a new addition through the kitchen, it’s just another delicious dram that I’ve yet to savor on the sly.

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