Perks of a Red Door

Having an affair is a stupid thing to do. Which is why I wont tell my husband I’ve been having one most of the summer. Let me roll it back to the beginning for you.

I have this buddy, Carmine, who likes to go out… a lot. He’s honestly a borderline alcoholic but we let him know that too often, and he’s a good time, anyway. It was late June and Carmine called me up to go to a gay bar with him. Being a bisexual woman, this is totally my thing, plus my husband was away for a few days so I figured, “why not?” I wanted the company, too. My husband got a promotion in April and had to travel a lot, which is a bit weird because his last promotion was just six months before and it caused him to stay at the office late, but as long as the money’s coming in, I can’t complain. 

Carmine picked me up around 6:00 pm so we could grab a bite to eat before walking to the bar. When I walked out my front door I noticed again the ugly shade of red that my front door was. It looked like if pomegranate red and neon orange had a baby and it made me absolutely sick to look at. I made another mental note to repaint it before the summer was out.

Carmine was the one who looked disgusted tonight, though, and not at the door. It was so easy for him to say, “Girl, what are you wearing?” as he rolled up to my house.

I’m not a slut, but it was hot and I was, admittedly, wearing a rather skimpy outfit for a married woman. But I knew how to take care of myself and I didn’t exactly think I’d have to worry about the advances of men at this particular establishment. But, women. How could I forget about women?

Lesbians can be quite the charmers, I know from experience. Very few men have managed to talk me into bed, but the amount of women I’ve had one-night stands with is frankly an embarrassing number.

So I, stupidly, wore a strapless top with laces in the back and the miniest skirt that is acceptable for a 30-year-old to own. Oh, and my Doc Martens; it was a gay bar, after all.

The crowd inside the bar was big enough to realize that the place was popular, but Carmine and I were still easily able to find a spot to hang out at the counter. The room had a familiar haze and smelled like a mix of too many peoples’ perfumes and a lot of 22-year-olds smoking a lot of weed.

Carmine and I walked in that night expecting to have a few drinks and a good time, and maybe find Carmine a hot rebound after his recent breakup. I anticipated girls making eyes at me from across the bar (I did look single), but what I did not expect was for me to make eyes back. I had had a couple drinks and convinced myself I’d “forgotten” my wedding ring at home; it didn’t seem like such a terrible decision at the time. I didn’t think I went out that night with the intention of spiting my husband, but something in me was clearly fed up with him. He was a man, a boy; I was done with it. Two rights don’t make a wrong but I’m pretty sure you can battle your spouse's immaturity and insecurity with your own confidence. And my confidence made me lock eyes with someone.

This girl was cute. Not young, but younger than me, maybe 27. And she wore a tight black dress with spaghetti straps and a thigh slit. Who am I kidding? She was hot, she looked like the love interest in some stupid action movie. I wasn’t really trying to make anything happen, but I did make a point of finishing my beer while she was looking. This, of course, prompted her to mosey on over to the bar where I stood. Carmine shot me a wide-eyed look that said, “What the hell are you doing?” and I shot him one back, trying my best to smile, that said, “Go anywhere that isn’t here.” He brushed shoulders with the approaching girl as he walked away.

She opened with, “What’ll you have next?” as she gestured to my empty bottle. It was cliché but I can always appreciate the hustle.

Please know something: I am perfectly capable and more than willing to buy my own drinks, and I had a husband. “Just another Corona, if you’re offering,” I said. But “shit” is what I thought. This is not who I was, but now it’s August, so I suppose it’s who I am.

The young woman leaned past me to order our drinks and then paused looking at my back before popping back next to me. “You’ve got a knot coming loose back here, may I…?” she asked, fingers already grazing my upper back. I didn’t have a loose knot, it was a ploy. Carmine had already re-tied by top and the guy was a boy scout, for God’s sake.

I swept my hair over one shoulder, “Thanks.” I felt her fiddle with laces without untying them at all. I kept as quiet as possible, I wanted her to spark conversation to see if she was really worth my time.

“I’m Paige, by the way,” she started, “Is this your first time here? Looking as good as you do, I’m sure I would’ve noticed you before.”

Flattery. I liked it. I made a point to smile during my answer, “I’ve only been here once before, my friend over there…” I pointed to Carmine in the middle of the room dancing with some guy, “... he drags me here every once in a while.”

“He certainly looks like he’s getting some action,” Paige commented.

“Yeah, he’s looking for a rebound,” I explained, laughing. I felt something while talking to Paige. Sure, she was trying to get in my pants, but she seemed, I don’t know, kind. She also looked stunning with her clean, high ponytail and winged eyeliner. They’re worth mentioning.

Just as I was admiring Paige’s beauty, Carmine shot me a different look, and I excused myself to meet him halfway between the dance floor and the bar where he explained that I shouldn’t bother waiting up for him before going home. I turned back around to find Paige leaning against the counter, eyes on me, waiting. I smiled as I walked up to her and said, “Seems like he’s leaving me to get home on my own tonight.”

Paige leaned in, I could feel her breath on my cheek. She smelled sweet and fresh and I would tell you what her lips looked like if they hadn’t locked on to mine so quickly. I melted. I couldn’t believe myself. I wasn’t just nervous that I was currently cheating on my husband, I had butterflies. More than butterflies, in fact. I felt like I did on my wedding day: like I had just made a terrible decision that would make my life so much more exciting. After a moment, Paige pulled away and said with a smile, “I could help you get home.”

“I like that idea,” I responded. Like I said, I know how to take care of myself. Say what you want about moral character, but I really didn’t see this as such a bad thing. My husband and I had been married for four years and I still loved him, but only because I hadn’t learned to hate him yet.

We both finished our drinks as fast as possible without looking like teenagers drinking alcohol for the first time and I ordered us an Uber back to my place. We flirted the entire car ride and for once I was thankful the driver had his Airpods in.

As we pulled up next to my house, Paige got quiet and started looking suspiciously out the window. “Which one’s yours?” she asked.

“The blue on with the red door,” I answered and pointed.

“That’s my ex’s place.”

“Oh, could be, I only bought it a couple years ago,” I raised my voice so she could hear me as I walked around the car.

She opened the door timidly, “We only broke up in March.”

I paused right outside my front door, finally putting things into place. The promotions, the late nights, the husband-wife vibes had been off for months. I felt stupid for being so naïve. My body stiffened and I asked, “How long were you together?”

“I don’t know, seven months, maybe?” I was surprised at how nonchalant Paige still acted.

Before I unlocked the front door I stared at it for a moment, thinking about how for years I hated that stupid red color, but now I finally found its purpose. At least the blood would blend in when I bashed my husband’s head into it. I finally opened it and stepped into the foyer. There was still a chance she was wrong, and part of me, a big part, hoped that she was. My house acted as Schrodinger’s box until there was hard evidence. But there was a picture of my husband up on the side table, and both of us knew.

Still, Paige said calmly, “That’s him. That’s my ex. What the fuck is going on?”

Having an affair is a stupid thing to do, but getting caught is even stupider.

I shut the door behind us.