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You know very well it is never a good idea to go partying with your wife. Previous experiments have been suicidal. But human beings are foolish, and you easily forget -- or hope -- that you have both learnt the limits of such an experiment.
Last weekend, Caroline said she felt like she wanted to get wasted and dance what has been a terrible week at work away. As a firm believer of the carrot and stick approach, you wanted to serve her the carrot that night (no pun here). Rather, she has adapted to the recent changes about dieting and use of screens in the house. A good girl deserves a bottle of wine or her cocktail. And damn, she can dance, if she wants.
So, you both go to Hurlingham. She is dressed in a dress so short, and she must be feeling 23 again. Good for her. And immediately, it hits you why you should not have gone with her. You should have given her a night out with her girls. No sooner do you get in than you notice one of your exes, who still has feelings for you, seated with her girls. Naturally, she comes to say hi. The hug is too familiar, and Caroline rolls her eyes so hard, you are sure they hurt. And the ex, conscious of her company does everything to despise her. This does not go down well with Caroline who sits there alone as the ex stands between the two of you. The ex is one of those hot women with bodies that scream a threat to any woman when it is near their men.
Off to a bad start.
“Who is she?”
It is an order. The question demands an honest answer.
“We used to date kitambo…,” you say with some calm assurance, aware that the air is afoul and the two are likely to fight in the washroom later.
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Thankfully, the drinks arrive and do well to calm the strained nerves. As the night wears on, some man stops by your table. He says hi to Caroline and they have some small talk, and the talk goes on and on. It gets you worried. After he leaves, she tells you promptly that they were together in college, and some crap about his job and the money he makes. Good for him.
When Nigerian music comes on, Caroline who eats and drinks Nigerian, steps onto the dance floor. Since you can’t dance to save your life, it is an excuse for you to order more drinks and read some sports news. The DJ is in his element.
She dances for far too long until you are worried. You go to see whether she is fine. Maybe the cocktail is messing her up. But what you see on the dance floor breaks your heart.
Caroline is busily dancing with some creep whose neck you want to snap. The two of them are happy together. You stand watching as they dance, Carol rubbing her behind on his groins, the man happily engrossed, having the time of his life. With your wife. At some, point, they face each other and exchange that look that leads to the exchange of numbers, and that is when Caroline sees you.
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