My Love Story with My Wife (Part 7)

What we can't have is always the best. This applies to finding a partner and getting married as well. After making a choice, people often find that they've chosen not a partner, but rather helplessness and regret. As a man, if you marry an ugly woman, you feel guilty and don't want to take her out; if you marry a beautiful woman, you'll constantly worry that she might cheat on you. Actually, women also complain, complaining that the men who stay by their side every day are incompetent, while the capable ones often leave them feeling like widows. So they tell themselves, "Be lenient with yourself, otherwise, if you work yourself to death, someone will spend your money, live in your house, play with your lover, sleep in your bed, and even tear up your photos and beat your children." Life is full of disappointments; what we consider lucky often comes with risks. Nothing can be perfect. The so-called perfect thing only exists in dreams. Although my wife has made mistakes, she is still like a willow on the lakeshore, her branches still so tender and charming in the river of my heart. In my eyes, she is still a delicate flower in the mist, her dreamlike charm stirring my heart. Although we've had our share of ups and downs, she and I are still inseparable, like fish and water. Because of this, I've become indifferent to my wife's affair with Old A.
However, the image of a woman weeping flashed through my mind, and my heart became uneasy again. An incident from when I was ten years old left a deep impression on me. A beautiful woman walked past a gate with her head down. Someone immediately shouted, "Oh! It's torn, it's torn!" The word "torn" is a euphemism for a woman who has had an affair, a derogatory term for a married woman having an extramarital affair. Even as a child, I understood the weight of that word.
"Haha, kid, where's it torn?" another person chimed in, adding to the jeers. "Her pants are ripped?" Hearing these grown men's mockery, the woman glared at them with shame and indignation, then turned away, wiping her eyes, and hurriedly fled.
"It's hard enough for a woman like you, have some decency!" another woman walked by and rebuked the two men. "Oh dear! Auntie, you should pity her, let your uncle take care of her!" The words had barely left her lips when a burst of laughter erupted from the crowd. The woman chased after the speaker, laughing and cursing. Later, I learned the whole story. This woman and her husband had both been labeled rightists, and her husband was later sent to work in a faraway place. The woman was left to care for her child and blind mother-in-law alone. A man from the village often helped her, and over time, feelings developed between them. Lonely and desolate, she fell into his arms. They were discovered kissing in the shed where the threshing ground was located, and the two were taken to the brigade headquarters that night. She initially remained silent, but after several questionings, the militia company commander became enraged, rushed over, slapped her twice, and had her pants pulled down, handcuffing her to a pillar in the headquarters. How could a weak woman withstand such threats and intimidation? In the end, she could only lower her head and tell the truth. Those people asked very detailed questions: Who initiated it? How many times did it happen? Where? Nothing was left unanswered. Later, they even asked what methods they used. The woman blushed deeply when questioned, but under their tyranny, she had no choice but to tell the whole story. Soon, her affair spread throughout the village, and people embellished and rewrote many versions of the story. This woman was pitiful; the shame and indignation on her face when she turned around is still etched in my mind.
I know my wife won't stoop to that level. But if my wife and Old A were to meet secretly outside, it would be easy for them to be discovered, leading to gossip and whispers behind their backs—a consequence far more serious and unbearable than the affair itself. Conversely, the thought of them entwined in my home would give me some peace of mind.
At my old workplace, we had to work shifts every two weeks, under surveillance. One person worked the first half of the night, and another the second half. Shifts were strictly forbidden, and sleeping was strictly prohibited. Friday night was my shift. Sitting in the duty room, bored, I watched the CCTV drama channel's "Wenji Returns to Han." The plot wasn't complicated, but the female lead was beautiful, the lyrics exquisite, and the melody melodious. I was quickly drawn into the story. Cai Wenji was the daughter of Cai Yong, a literary figure of the Eastern Han Dynasty. She was learned, eloquent, and skilled in poetry, a renowned woman of talent in ancient times. Taking advantage of the chaos, the Qiang and Hu barbarians plundered the Central Plains, and Cai Wenji, along with many other captured women, was taken to the Southern Xiongnu. She married a man of the Xiongnu's Left Wise King and had two sons. After Cao Cao pacified the northern warlords, he sent someone with a thousand taels of gold and a pair of white jade discs to ransom her, and she was remarried to his bodyguard, Dong Si. While many may not be familiar with Dong Si, they should know about the Three Kingdoms period and Sima Shi and Sima Zhao. Her niece, Xiahou Hui, married Sima Shi. I sympathized with her difficult circumstances and marveled at her unique life experiences. Looking at the actress's handsome face and graceful figure, I thought about how unfortunate it was that she was forced to leave her homeland and abandon her husband and children. But in truth, she was also fortunate. Including the time before her abduction, the talented Cai Wenji married three times in her life. The first was a gentle and refined gentleman, the second a gentle and refined nobleman, and the second and third were burly and muscular men. She experienced both the gentle caress of a soft breeze and the awe-inspiring power of a raging storm; it could be said that she enjoyed the love of the opposite sex that other women rarely experienced. As the lingering notes of "Eighteen Songs of a Nomad Flute" faded, my thoughts returned to reality.
What was she doing? With this question in mind, I picked up the phone and called home. The first time I called, I heard a dial tone; perhaps the phone wasn't placed properly. I used this excuse to justify my wife and to comfort myself. Half an hour later, I called again, and the answer was still a dial tone. My wife is a very meticulous person; could she make such a basic mistake? I began to wonder. I knew she wouldn't be asleep before ten o'clock. What was she doing? Watching TV? Reading? Or…?
I hadn't noticed if Old A had come home. If he had left, there was no need to say more. If he hadn't come home, the two of them must be together. He's usually in charge of arranging the duty roster, so he knows I'm on duty tonight. Given how passionate they are right now, he won't just sleep peacefully! If they're together now, are they at my house or his dorm? If they really are together, I'd rather they were at my house, so no one would find out, whether they're cuddling and talking or making love in bed. Imagining what might happen when they're together, my heart aches with a mix of bitterness and excitement.
The next day, I got home very early. My wife was still fast asleep in bed. As soon as I entered, I looked around and noticed something—two used condoms in the trash can! Ah! Old A was here. I shook my head, threw the two condoms back in the trash, and quietly began cleaning the house.
While cleaning, I was also pondering a question. Everyone hopes for love to last forever and be perfect, but external erosion often leaves cracks and imperfections, making it unrecognizable. No matter how deep the love, who can guarantee their love will be perfect? Life has its art, but also its flaws; I know this very well. But I also firmly believe in myself, in my rationality, and in my ability to handle emotional issues and crises in family life.
The first light of dawn broke, and soft light streamed through the glass window onto the thin blanket, clearly outlining the curves of my wife's body. Her eyes were slightly closed, her jade-like arms protruding from the blanket, lying across her chest, a strand of bangs curving across her forehead, her nostrils flaring slightly as she breathed evenly. Her long, disheveled hair was gathered and spread on the pillow, her neck appearing even longer and more graceful in the soft light, making my heart flutter. I carefully reached out to stroke her neck, afraid of accidentally disturbing her sweet sleep. But the moment my fingers touched her skin, she opened her eyes.
"You're back!" she murmured dreamily.
"It's still early! No need to get up," I said, taking off my clothes and lying down next to her. She nestled in my arms, her rounded buttocks pressed against my lower abdomen, curled up like a kitten. I lovingly pulled her closer, kissing her hairline behind her ear. In my heart, Yan was my daughter. I loved the feeling of her snuggling in my arms, loved her clinging to my neck and acting coquettishly, loved her occasional mischievous expression. Relaxed, I began to savor the warmth and romance of our time together. Ah! She was still my precious darling! After
holding her for a while, I propped myself up, letting my lips and tongue roam over her body, kissing her shoulders, her back, and her full buttocks. I noticed a faint red mark on each of her buttocks. I knew her skin was delicate and tender; even a little too much pressure would leave a mark.
"Why are your buttocks red?"
She didn't answer, but turned her body towards me, her breathing becoming heavier. My teasing reignited her desire.
"Was he here last night?"
"Hmm!" she hummed nasally.
"Did he do that red mark?" I could guess it was a mark Old A left on her during his madness. However, I wanted my wife to say it herself, so I pressed on.
"If you're not here, who else could it be! Ha, you know perfectly well!" As she said this, her face showed a look that was both shy and playful.
"That man is so shameless, so cruel, I'm never talking to him again!" I pretended to be angry.
"Hehe, you're so adorably silly!" My wife saw that I was teasing her on purpose. She ruffled my hair twice. "I like him like that, it makes me feel like I'm flying, flying to the sky." Saying this, my wife pulled me into her arms. My face was pressed between her breasts. Talking about Old A fully aroused my desire.
"Honey, you're so good!" Before my wife could finish speaking, I had already rolled over and pinned her down.

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My Love Story with My Wife (Part 7)

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