In Flagrante Delicto

It was almost the exact instant Wendy gingerly picked up the red thong from between the two pillows on their bed that Phillip retrieved a white jock strap that had seen better days, from the floor.

“What’s this?” said Wendy, her face sporting a scowl that would shame a monsoon cloud. She was holding the side strap of the thong between her index finger and thumb, arm outstretched, much like one might hold a worm.

“What’s this?” said Phillip, raising an eyebrow, in bemusement. In a gesture mirroring his wife’s, he held the jockstrap at arm’s length.

The two of them were clearing up after a party. It was their famous annual bash, what they called the Let's Party for No Reason Party, and things had clearly gotten out of control. Well, after a full year of COVID and no partying, that was only to be expected. 

The tidying up had unearthed a few interesting artifacts. 

“I think that thong belongs to Sheila,” said Phillip. Sheila was the post doc who worked in his lab, running a big experiment on the microbiome of mice.

“And how would you know?” asked Wendy, immediately.

“Well,” he said, improvising. “She was bending down to pick up something, and I think I saw it riding up. In fact, I’m pretty sure that happened.”

“Disgusting,” said Wendy. “And you really shouldn’t have been looking,” she added, admonishing her husband.

Phillip spread out his hands, a gesture of appeasement. “She was right in front of me.”

“And I think that, that thing,” Wendy paused and spluttered here, she couldn't quite bring herself to name the offending object, “belongs to Richard,” she finished.

“And how would you know?” asked Phillip. It was definitely his turn to ask.

“Well, if you could bring yourself to look, you would see it’s a personalized variety with his name on it,” Wendy sniggered.

“What a dick,” said Phillip.

“Yes, you could definitely call him that,” said Wendy. They both stared at the jockstrap which had ‘What the Dick-Ens’ written on it. This was Dick Stern’s favorite expression of wry amusement. He and Wendy were professors at the Department of English at UCLA.

“Were they really doing something in our bed?” said Wendy. It was hard to know whether she objected to the act itself or the scene of the crime.

“I believe the word you're looking for is fornicating, my dear,” said Phillip. This only made Wendy scowl some more.

* * *

On Monday, Wendy confronted Richard in his office. 

“I believe you left something behind near my bed on Friday night,” she said, holding out a brown paper bag to him. In it, was the offending article.

“Ah, thank you,” he said, taking the bag from her with a broad grin. 

“How could you?” said Wendy. “Especially when you and I are.” She tried again. “When you and I have been.” She couldn’t bring herself to say the words. “You know,” she said, finally.

Richard and she had been having an affair for the past month.

“Seeing each other? Having an affair? Doing the deed? Yes, all of these are true. And you have caught me, as they say, in flagrante delicto. But we never agreed to be exclusive, my dear.”

“Exclusive?” she spluttered. “We’re having an affair and we still need to discuss being exclusive?”

“But of course,” he said. “One can have multiple affairs.”

“And you do?”

“Yes, whenever I get the chance. Why not?” 

“I don’t know. It’s just not my style.”

“Well, it happens to be mine. We were there, Sheila offered, and I said yes. I’m a bit like Hugh Grant in that way.”

“Sadly, not in others,” she said, mean-spiritedly. “Well, I don’t like this at all, Dick. And that too with Sheila.” As if the choice of this other lover was the deciding factor.

“That’s a pity,” he said. “Are you saying goodbye?”

And just like that, it was over. 

She flounced out of his office, muttering to herself. What had the world come to? Did one have to have the talk about exclusivity with everybody now? Apparently one did.

Then she remembered something, turned around, went back to his office and poked her head in. “And I never cared for your stupid customized underwear,” she said. “It’s wildly pretentious.” Then she banged the door and walked away for good. 

She could hear him laughing.

* * *

8 miles away in the north east direction, Phillip confronted Sheila. They were in the room that housed the mice cages. The mice in the control group were sleeping while the ones on the drug were feverishly running on their wheels.

“Really, you left a thong in my bed? What were you thinking?” he said.

“Ah, you saw it did you?” said Sheila. “I left it there just for you to discover.”

“Not just me, my wife saw it too,” said Phillip. “I had to make up something about seeing it on you when you bent over.”

“Well that’s pretty much how Dick Stern saw it,” said Sheila. 

“Just tell me why,” said Phillip. “I thought we were perfectly happy having our little...entertainment on the side.”

“I was happy,” said Sheila. “Till I saw your wife’s pill box in the bathroom. That’s what got me annoyed. I thought you said you had nothing going on with her. That all you do is hold hands and watch TV. In that case, why is she still on the pill?”

“I don’t know,” said Phillip, confused. “She takes it for her complexion. Something about her skin breaking out. We’re definitely on the most platonic terms.”

“You are so naive, Phillip. If it’s not you, she’s almost certainly seeing someone else,” said Sheila.

Phillip felt an uncomfortable churning in his stomach. Like most men, he was perfectly happy having an affair, but the thought of his wife with someone else? That made him sick.

“I’m sorry, but I think this has to end Sheila,” said Phillip. 

“I think so too,” said Sheila. “It was good while it lasted?” She didn’t tell Phillip this, but after her torrid tryst with Dick Stern, she had already decided to make a switch.

She looked at the mice working hard on their wheels. Then she called out to Phillip, who was walking away. “It would be nice if you could bring my thong back,” she said. “Those things cost a bomb.” 

* * *

That night, Phillip and Wendy ate dinner, looking glum. The vegan enchiladas were definitely not hitting the spot.

“I spoke to Sheila about her thong today,” said Phillip.

“Really?” said Wendy. “How uncomfortable. I would have dealt with it, you know,” she said.

“Right. One thing led to another and she guessed you were probably having an affair,” said Phillip. In his anxiety, he forgot there should be no straight line connecting the discussion of an errant thong and his wife's extra curricular activities.

“Oh my,” said Wendy, taken aback at the accusation. "Who is she, Dr. Freud?" She was about to deny it, and then thought better of it. 

“Something minor happened,” she said. “But it was just the one time,” she lied. Then she added, “I get the feeling that you think much more about the mice than me.”

“I do have to think about the mice a lot,” said Phillip gravely, in the manner of someone carrying a heavy burden for science. “But it doesn’t mean I don’t love you.” He didn't say that after fifteen years of marriage, sometimes mice can be more interesting than one's wife.

“What about you?” she said. She suddenly realized how odd it was that he would speak to Sheila about a thong.

“Something minor happened,” he said. “But it was just the one time,” he lied.

They looked at each other, recognizing the arrival of some sort of detente. Then they held hands and watched TV.