Betrayal

They were walking a few meters ahead of me. He was squeezing her small hand. No. It definitely wasn't him. And I almost smiled to myself, to my hallucinations, and almost stopped to enter the bookstore when... That shirt. A white shirt with burgundy stripes. I wasn't smiling anymore. I stood there for a moment. Something had nailed my feet to the sidewalk. They were walking. They weren't talking. With every passing moment, they were getting farther and farther away. For a moment, I even lost sight of them. A sea of ​​people swayed steadily around me. A dozen or so people now separated us. Someone bumped into me. I'm sorry... a male voice. And he was gone. I stood there, unable to move. Maybe I shouldn't have? It definitely wasn't him. He's in Krakow today. He was leaving early in the morning. He left quietly. He didn't even wake me. Yes. I'll go into the bookstore. And I started. Something was pushing me forward. I have to catch up with them. I have to know for sure it wasn't him. I was practically running. I can see them now. They're holding hands. They're swinging them. Suddenly, he turns his head slightly and looks at her. My husband turns his head and looks at the strange woman he's holding.

Suddenly, I feel cold, even though the midday sun is beating down with all its might. I'll quicken my pace. I'll get in their way. I'll start yelling and... Exactly. What next? Will I act out a cheap drama? Put on an interesting spectacle? And what difference will that make?

They walked slowly, I was right behind them. I felt like I was running. I was breathing heavily. I saw their hands intertwined like a braid. And I saw the faces of our children. Cheerful, happy. I saw my son Mateusz and my daughter Majka. I saw him coming home from work, kissing Majka and shaking Mateusz's hand tightly. I saw the pride in my son's eyes that his daddy greeted him like a real boyfriend. I saw the desire in my husband's eyes when a few days ago he looked at me and asked, "Maybe we should drop the kids off at Grandma's for an hour?"

Those images were crumbling. The past, like tacky gilded brocade, was now raining down on me. Everything I loved was an avalanche of fake dust.

I didn't cry. Tears fell freely onto my cream blouse, my light beige trousers. I walked slower and slower. Waves of people flowed between us stubbornly, mercilessly. Finally, I stopped. Unconsciously, I looked at my husband and the strange woman with my eyes. I couldn't see them anymore. All I could see were their clasped hands.

The world collapsed, and the sun shone. Everything lost its color, and the shop windows screamed with color. Time stopped, rushing forward. I glanced at my watch. Even though there was no world, I had to pick up my children from the babysitter in half an hour.

Kundera wrote that our behavior determines our awareness of the future. If we reject this awareness, we begin living exclusively in the present. My husband did it for me. He wrote down my future in the city center on a sunny day.

He arrived while I was eating dinner with the kids. Several hours passed, and I had no strategy. No plan. I thanked God for the tranquilizers. That I wasn't shaking, that I wasn't crying. When he entered the kitchen, I turned to make tea. I couldn't look at him. "Hi," he said. "Hi," I replied. He greeted the kids, chatted with them for a moment. He went into the bathroom. I put the tea on the table. I was calm with a deceptive, chemical calm. And really, why had I even gone to that idiotic bookstore? What the hell was I even pushing myself to do there, downtown? What would happen if I went to the nearby Empik store? What if. Moronic speculation. Suddenly, I saw a wall. A huge wall in my head. And behind it, hundreds of questions I didn't want to ask myself. They waited patiently, certain that their turn would eventually come. They found a loophole and bombarded me mercilessly. Who was this woman? How long had they known each other? Was he jumping from her bed into mine? Was she asking him when he was going to leave his wife? Did he love her? God... More tears. I had to leave the house immediately. The children sat in front of the TV. He was taking a shower. I'm leaving! I just screamed. I knew I shouldn't be driving in this state. A text message beeped. "When will you be back?" I immediately replied. "Put the children down. Don't wait. I'm meeting a friend." I didn't want to see anyone. I had to be alone.

I stopped in the parking lot of a supermarket. I chose the most secluded spot, by the fence surrounding the parking lot. And I sat there. Without a thought. Without tears. Lethargic. I was coming to terms with myself, not knowing what.

I woke up. It was night. I felt terribly cold. I'm going home, I thought, and the thought gave my heart a painful stab. Home...

The pills had stopped working. Cold sweats poured over me every few moments. I still didn't know what to do.

The apartment was a freezing cave. A gentle warmth emanated only from the children's room. Something told me to avoid the bedroom. I went into the bathroom. His shirt was lying on the washing machine. The shirt I'd ironed for him last night. The shirt he'd worn this morning. The shirt he'd been wearing to hold that woman's hand. The shirt she'd taken off of him. God... As I bent to shove the shirt into the washing machine, tears fell with a dull plop onto the burgundy terracotta floor.

I went into the bedroom. Despite myself. I was afraid. I was afraid of tomorrow. The moment when I'd have to tell him. I took a deep breath. I'm pathetic. Why am I afraid? Shouldn't he be afraid? I won't tell him anything. I stepped into the dark hallway. I fumbled for my phone from my purse. I lay down in bed next to him. I'll text him. I won't tell him anything, I'll just text him. I only have 160 characters to do this.

If you plan on seeing her even once again, you need to leave this house tomorrow. If you decide to stay, you will NEVER see her again.

And that's where I should have ended this message. Firstly, I used 158 characters. Secondly, I didn't want to write clichés and worn-out clichés of betrayed wives. Send. Dial the phone number. Search. I didn't have to search. He was first on the list. Send. A moment later, a faint buzz came from the hallway. It was his phone, signaling an incoming message. It must have been on top, on the dresser under the mirror. Suddenly, I felt I had to add something more. I had to write that if he stayed here and saw her even once, I swear I'd kill him. I swear on our children I'd kill him.

I don't remember the exact content of that second message. It was incoherent and hysterical. It was hateful and full of love. It was exactly like me at that moment. I had to send it. It was real. Send. Another buzz from the hallway. I glanced at my phone. It was almost five o'clock. Dawn was breaking. I closed my eyes and waited for the alarm clock to go off.

He got up and went straight to the bathroom. The sound of water. Will she get out of bed tomorrow and go into the bathroom again? I was scared again. I started shaking. Mommy, Mommy! Majka's cheerful voice. She ran into the bedroom. I'll lie with you, Mommy! I clung tightly to my daughter's warm body. As if she could save me, save me from what was about to happen today.

The sound of the bathroom door opening. She leaves. She goes to the kitchen. She stops in the hallway. Now she's probably looking at her phone. Two messages have been received. Still calm, she picks up the phone. A minute passes. Maybe two. Majka chirps happily. She wants to go on the high slide and then jump on the bouncy castle. "Shall we go, Mommy, shall we?" she asks, but he's still standing in the hallway. I really want to look at him. See his face. But I'm lying in Majka's arms. I hear him take a few steps. Heavy footsteps that say he already knows that I know. Does he hate me right now? Or does he hate himself?

Suddenly he stands in the bedroom doorway. Pale. Disheveled. Terrified. His terror gives me comfort. I turn away, trying not to look at him. "Marta..." Don't say anything, I cut him off. "Daddy, we're going to the slide!" Majka yells. He stands in the doorway for a moment, then goes to the hallway. Now he's probably wandering around the apartment, unnerved. Finally, I hear him getting dressed and leaving.

He's been gone all day. In the evening, my phone buzzes. A message has been received. Show me. "Marta, I love you. Can I come home?" "You know the terms," ​​I reply, cold, though I feel warm. Hot. I wanted to hear those two words so much. I feel joy and peace. I know, I know, these may be empty words, cliched, rounded expressions. But I really want to believe, so I cling to this belief with the slit of my heart. A tiny piece, saved, that didn't drown in the streams of betrayal.

It stayed. We glued this love together. And everything is as it was before. And nothing is as it was before