The Story of Bob

I went to the department store to get a gift for my favorite aunt, who'd recently had surgery. It was a Sunday morning, and I was hung over. I had hastily tied a scarf on my unruly hair, and covered my puffy eyes with a large pair of sunglasses.

As I was browsing through the housewares section, I spied Bob. He was in menswear. Not 10 feet away from where I stood. There was no mistaking all six feet and eight inches of him. He stood with a shopping bag slung over his shoulder, and glanced at his watch, a vacant expression in his eyes. That was Bob, with whom, more than half a year ago, I'd rolled around in the sheets on a regular basis for the better part of 3 months. Bob, the guy who loved it when I tickled his earlobe wih my lips. Bob, with whom I'd laughed at the phrase "happy balls". Bob, who took great delight in burying his face between my breasts an inhaling deeply. Bob, who would grin wickedly from ear to ear while tickling me, enjoying the view of my curves bouncing giddily away from his cruel fingers.

Bob, who always seemed to want to come over after 11PM on weeknights. Bob, the guy who threw a fit when I called him at home instead of text messaging him. Bob, the guy who was nervous about parking his car on the street. Bob, whose calls I did not return after I figured out that he was sleeping with someone else. I nonchalantly fingered the price tags on a nice set of towels, watching him out of the corners of my eyes, and briefly entertained the idea of going over there.

But he wasn't alone. A woman was next to him, examining polo shirts. A petite brunette with a winning smile and laugh lines on her deep-set brown eyes. A woman with a shrill voice and 2 rings on the appropriate fingers of her left hand. But Bob wasn't married, I thought. She called over 2 children. They looked to be about 3 and 7. But Bob didn't have children, I thought. She held up a powder blue shirt to his chest. He smiled a thin smile of exasperation, a faraway look in his eyes. He lifted his left hand and ruffled his sandy-brown hair like he always did, and the gleaming display lights danced off the ring on his finger. I hid behind a display, my breath caught in my chest.

The children darted between the clothing racks, like kids do, as Bob grabbed the shirt from his wife's puzzled hands and stomped off to the changing room. I closed my eyes. Bob who'd sworn to me he was single. Bob who'd said he couldn't stand small children. Bob, who, at the ripe old age of 35, informed me that he had no intention of settling down anytime soon. I heard the sound of my pulse, beating rapidly at my temples. I opened my eyes. I looked over at her, Bob's wife.

I looked at the resignation in her eyes and, for a split second, I felt the need to say something. I rolled the executive pen in the bottom of my purse between my thumb and forefinger. I stared at the blank underside of the price tag I had in my hand. I contemplated writing her a note about the man she loved. I contemplated introducing myself and telling her the truth. For what seemed like an eternity, I plotted several disastrous scenarious in which I could tell her the truth without turning her whole world upside-down. I imagined a situation in which I could come clean about Bob's activities without anyone getting hurt. But I could not justify a single one.

I looked over at her again. She said, "C'mon, kids, let's see what Daddy looks like in this shirt Mommy picked out for him". My heart sank. The smile on her lips belied the exhaustion in her eyes. She looked sad. I felt a lump in my throat. She went down on one knee and held her kids tightly to her chest as they babbled excitedly, sticky cherubic faces pressed firmly against her curly brown hair.

My heart felt heavy all over again, but not for me.

I wiped a single tear off my cheek, turned around, and quietly left the store.

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