Monarch Beach by Anita Hughes

shoulders heaving until I heard the kitchen door bang shut. Then I collapsed into Stephanie’s arms.
    “I’m glad I don’t take your yoga class,” Stephanie said.
    “I stopped by the restaurant after class and I found Andre doing Ursula.”
    “What do you mean, ‘doing Ursula’?” Stephanie asked.
    “The same thing we meant when we said it in high school: fucking, screwing, giving it to her. Sticking his big long prick inside her Scandinavian thong.”
    “I get the picture,” Stephanie said with a shudder.
    “What am I going to do?” I cried.
    “What did he say?”
    “I didn’t give him time to say anything. I slammed the door and backed out of there. I think I broke your beautiful cut-glass door, I’m sorry.”
    “Oh, Amanda,” Stephanie said. Then we were both silent.
    “I thought we were happy,” I said finally. “We have our beautiful little house. The restaurant is doing really well. Max is an easy child.” I added up the things we had to be grateful for, all erased by the picture of Andre and Ursula wrapped around each other like Saran Wrap.
    “You need a drink,” Stephanie said.
    “A drink won’t help. Yet…” I replied bleakly. A shot of tequila sounded tempting, but it was only noon. I couldn’t start down that road.
    “Why did he do it? I know he’s really handsome, and women fall all over him. But we have a great sex life. We had sex last night!” I threw a plastic shovel at the playhouse. First I was tossing stones at ducks, now I was hurling shovels.
    “He’s a man,” Stephanie said simply.
    “I’ve never seen Glenn look at another woman. I know I’m not a bombshell like you, but I keep myself together.” Over the years I found a style that suited me. I wore my hair in thick waves that were perfectly highlighted by my mother’s Union Square stylist. I visited her salon to keep my brows shaped, and I learned to apply makeup so I had a natural glow. I still loved fashion, and my mother and I had regular lunch dates at Neiman Marcus, where I scooped up designer sweaters and my favorite Tod’s loafers.
    “I’m more shelled-out bomb than bombshell,” Stephanie laughed. “And you are a young sophisticate. I’ve always envied how you wear clothes.”
    “Thanks,” I blubbered, and burst into tears again.
    “Glenn’s different from most men. He’s in his head, so he doesn’t notice normal things, like women.”
    “Are you saying most husbands screw their employees in broad daylight at their workplace?”
    “Maybe most men don’t give in to their urges,” Stephanie said hesitantly.
    “I just married a world-class jerk,” I said. We were both silent again.
    “Maybe,” I said, wiping my eyes, “maybe it was just a moment of madness. I can confront him and tell him if it ever happens again we’re finished.” I sat up straight, filled with a ray of hope.
    Stephanie kicked the sand with her Keds. “I don’t think it was a momentary madness.”
    “What do you mean?” I looked at her suspiciously.
    “Andre has done it before,” she replied, not looking at me.
    “With you?”
    “Of course not with me! I would never cheat on Glenn.”
    “I remember when the restaurant opened, you were drooling over Andre,” I huffed.
    “That’s the point, Amanda. It’s okay to drool, just not to touch. I know I used to be a big talker, but I never did anything about it. I know how great my husband is.”
    “Then what do you mean?”
    “Ummm.” Stephanie examined a spot on her shirt.
    “Ummm what?” I demanded.
    “Remember Bella?” She still didn’t look at me.
    “The summer waitress from Michigan?”
    “I fired her because I found her and Andre in the restaurant garden.”
    “Picking tomatoes?” I asked hopefully.
    “Having sex in the shed.”
    “I thought she went back to Michigan to take care of her grandmother.” My body crumpled like a deflated balloon.
    “No,” Stephanie said simply.
    “Remember Angie the wine sommelier?” she continued after a