I’m going to be so mad when I get home.
Furious, if I’m totally honest. Livid. Enraged. ‘Someone-had-better-make-sure-the-gun-cabinet-is-locked-up-and-the-key-hidden-where-I-can’t-find-it pissed off.
I will pull into my driveway at 1:15 p.m. and wonder what my husband’s car is doing there. “Maybe he has come down with the same nasty bug I have,” I will say to myself. I will then enter my house through the side door and throw my coat and purse down on the kitchen island, right next to the other coat and purse that are there. This second set of articles do not belong to me, which will cause me to wonder to whom they do belong. I will soon discover that they belong to the woman I hear giggling down the hall. My husband will be giggling as well. Drawn to the sound of their laughter, I will walk in the direction of my bedroom, both curious and afraid of what I might find.
What I will find is my husband in bed with the owner of the other coat and purse. They will not see me at first and will therefore carry on doing what they should only be doing with the person to whom they are married. Once they do discover me, there will be many exclamations of “Oh shit!”, and “What the hell do you’re think you’re doing?” and “You told me you were divorced!”
We are not divorced, my husband and I, but we will be once my lawyers have their way with that cheating son of a bitch.
Yes, I am going to be so mad when I get home. Until then, I will push through the essential projects on my desk so that I can leave work early, completely unaware that going home in a few hours will make me feel even worse.