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Below is a short story of my wife dating a guy for a couple months. It was really interesting and most below is true. I shortened it, so it would be so boring. However, they still see each other from time to time.
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I’m Tom, thirty-five, security for a logistics firm here in Hattiesburg. Mei Lin, my wife of eight years, is thirty-three—still turns heads with that smooth black hair, those almond eyes, the way she moves like she knows exactly what she’s doing even when she’s just walking to the fridge. We live in a quiet subdivision off 4th Street, close enough to USM that the college kids sometimes wander into our neighborhood looking lost. I work from home most days; she does part-time admin for a small import company. Our marriage is great. It’s… comfortable.
Predictable. Until last fall.
It was Oktoberfest at SoPro—Southern Prohibition Brewing on Mobile Street. Downtown Hattiesburg turns into a mini-Munich for one Saturday: steins clinking, a cover band playing oompah covers of pop songs, slinging brats and sauerkraut. Mei Lin wore a red dirndl-style dress she’d bought online—low-cut enough to show the curve of her breasts, skirt flaring just above her knees. She laughed when I said it made her look dangerous. We went together and arrived around noon, just in time for the keg lift competition.
She disappeared into the crowd for a while—said she was getting another pour of their Oktoberfest beer. I stayed near the bar, nursing a pint, watching the sea of lederhosen and checkered shirts. When she came back twenty minutes later, her cheeks were flushed, eyes bright. Behind her was this kid—tall, lean, college-boy messy hair, wearing a USM hoodie under a borrowed felt hat. Ethan. Twenty-one, biology major, medial track. From Tyler, Texas, four hours west.
They’d bumped into each other at the bar line. He’d complimented her dress in broken German he’d learned from YouTube; she’d teased him about his fake accent. He bought her next beer. Then another. I watched from across the yard as they talked—her leaning in, laughing at something he said, his hand brushing her arm once, twice. When she finally brought him over, she introduced him casually: “Tom, this is Ethan. He’s pre-med at Southern Miss.” He shook my hand firmly, eyes flicking between us like he was trying to figure out the dynamic. I smiled. Said, “Nice to meet you, man. Enjoying the fest?”
That night, back home, Mei Lin was still buzzing. She told me everything—how he’d asked for her number “in case he had questions about living in Mississippi as an out-of-stater.” How he’d texted her goodnight an hour later with a photo of the SoPro neon sign. I didn’t stop her when she replied. I didn’t stop her the next week when they met for coffee “to talk about Texas vs. Mississippi humidity.” I didn’t stop her when the texts turned flirty, then explicit. I read them sometimes when she left her phone unlocked. I jerked off to the thought of it more times than I care to admit.
Then came the ask. Ethan needed a girlfriend for his family’s Labor Day reunion in Tyler. Parents, aunts, uncles—the whole “when are you settling down” interrogation. He didn’t want to go alone again. Mei Lin told me over dinner one night, casual as if discussing groceries. “He asked if I’d go with him. Pretend. Just for the weekend.” Her eyes searched mine. I swallowed. “You want to?” She nodded slowly. “Yes.” I said, “Then go.”
I drove them to the edge of town that Friday morning. Ethan picked her up in his Civic; I followed in my truck for a block or two, watching her slide into the passenger seat in a sundress that clung in all the right places. She waved at me in the rearview. I waved back, stomach twisting with that sick-sweet mix of dread and heat.
They were gone four days. She texted updates—photos of the family barbecue, her arm around Ethan’s waist for the group shot, his hand low on her back. A selfie of them at the lake, her in a borrowed bikini, him staring like she’d invented sex. Saturday night she sent a voice note, voice low: “We’re in the guest room now. Door’s locked. He’s nervous. It’s cute.” Then nothing for hours. I paced the house, hard as steel, imagining it—her guiding him, teaching him how to touch her the way I used to before routine set in. Her moans I knew so well, now for him.
Sunday she called briefly. “His mom loves me. Keeps saying I’m good for him.” Laughter in her voice. “We’re heading back tomorrow.” Monday afternoon the Civic pulled into our driveway. Ethan stayed in the car; Mei Lin got out, hair mussed, lips swollen, carrying a small duffel. She kissed me on the porch—deep, tasting faintly of him—and whispered, “Thank you.”
That night in bed she told me details while I fucked her harder than I had in years. How he’d been gentle at first, almost reverent. How she’d climbed on top in the dark, riding him slow while the house slept. How he’d come too fast the first time, apologized; she’d laughed, kissed him, started again. How the second night, in his car behind the barn, she’d straddled him with the windows fogged, biting his shoulder to keep quiet. I came inside her listening, picturing every thrust.
Ethan texts her sometimes—holidays, random memes. She shows me most of them. We don’t talk about Tyler much anymore. But every so often, when we’re out at SoPro for trivia or a new release, she’ll glance toward the bar like she’s remembering that first crowded night. I’ll catch her eye, feel that familiar twist in my gut, and know: some things you don’t pretend. Some things just happen.
And some husbands watch it all, and stay.