Read Something New for Free Online Page B

shake my head, garnering a look of puzzlement.
    “You okay?” he asks.
    I nod and smile reassuringly. “I grabbed a snack at the Y,” I lie.
    I am not in the habit of deceiving my husband, but a little fib like this seems harmless. It goes to the greater good. In marriages—mine, anyway—I have found that it is problematic for one party to engage in self-improvement tactics when the other is not. It shifts the balance of power too much. Like the time Jonah did Atkins. I was so envious of his sudden fitness that I consciously whipped up his favorite carb-rich dishes at dinner just to punish him. Or the time I joined a yoga studio at Jill’s insistence and started going to classes before breakfast. Suddenly, Jonah was besieged with early-morning client meetings and vendor emergencies that had to be solved at the crack of dawn, so that I could barely make it to half the weekly sessions. Ultimately, I had to let my membership lapse. I will admit that I was secretly relieved to have an excuse to give up yoga, as the only position I truly enjoyed making—and was moderately successful at—was Corpse. But still.
    “You forgot to eat lunch, didn’t you?”
    I nod and smile again, thinking of the Pop-Tarts. For some reason, I have gotten back on track with my whole resolution, reclaiming-my-former-babe-status thing. The Pop-Tart transgression was merely a setback. (And if I do the treadmill after dinner, I can erase those two or three hundred calories in forty minutes.) For the rest of the day I only chose healthy fuel for my body—a salad at lunch and a protein bar in the late afternoon to keep me from turning into Low-Blood-Sugar Monster Mom. I am now opting for the tofu with mixed vegetables instead of the lo mein and scallion pancakes.
    At this time, I am not drawing a correlation between my renewed desire to lose weight and my acquaintance with BenCampbell. He hasn’t entered my mind at all over the past few hours. Really, he hasn’t. Okay, this isn’t quite true. He has. But only his hands, which have intermittently come to mind since our bleacher encounter. I tell myself that it is only natural to revisit the touch of a man other than your husband, regardless of how inconsequential or innocent said touch was. I am certainly not thinking of Ben sexually—this is the truth. I can appreciate his good looks, in the same way that I appreciate, say, Brad Pitt’s appeal. And Ben is definitely one of those all-around great guys to whom women can’t help but be attracted. But he is also, clearly, happily married, with a terrific family life. And so am I. So am I.
    However, tonight, I find myself looking at Jonah more critically than usual. The way his blue-gray eyes—which are beautiful and expressive—disappear when he smiles. Normally, I find this endearing, but tonight it inexplicably irks me. And the way he purposely lets a noodle hang down over his chin so that he can noisily slurp it into his mouth for the amusement of our children. I always laugh along with the kids, but tonight, this humorous display disgusts me. And how he sniffs at the wine in his glass before he takes a sip, as though his nose will reveal to him a bounty of secrets about the Beaujolais he is about to imbibe. Tonight, this action seems as pretentious as it is absurd. Jonah guzzles any and all kinds of wine set before him, including ones that taste like jet fuel.
    Still, when he slides his hand across the table and intertwines his fingers with mine, I don’t think of Ben Campbell. I think of Jonah. My husband. With whom I have spent the last fourteen plus years of my life, and with whom I will spend the next forty or so. He is as solid a man as they come. His family comes first and without exception. He is a true “the glass is half full” kind of guy, always looking on thebright side of things (sometimes to the degree that I want to smack him). He may not be the best listener in the world—his eyes start to glaze over whenever I get