When we got home, Cindy greeted us at the door. She looked ready for a hot date, with a full face of make up and her blonde hair tied back in a fancy French braid. She was gazing at the love of her life — her son — and it showed all over her beautiful face. She just lit up. I got a peck on the cheek, while Sam got wrapped up in a hug and showered with kisses. I waited for them to finish and then told Sam to put his dirty clothes from the sleepover in the laundry. While our tween trudged off to his room, flicking hair out of his eyes and jumping up to touch every door frame along his path, I pulled my wife in tight for a hug, making sure to press myself snugly against her body, smooshing her big firm sweater puppies against my chest so I could really feel them.
It was my first test and, predictably, inconclusive. Her big tits felt heavenly mashed against me, but I couldn’t tell if they were all natural or surgically augmented. I needed to do more testing.
I felt foolish harboring these doubts about my own wife, but I couldn’t shake them. You would think that, being married to this woman as long as I have, I must be so intimately familiar with her body that I would know whether she has implants or not. But I’m not. I always assumed her breasts are all natural, but I don’t know for sure. We’ve never discussed it and I don’t get much access to them. My mind is troubled and restless. I’m questioning everything I thought I knew about my marriage and ever since it occurred to me that there is a part of my wife that is fake — something she wants to hide — I have been plagued with suspicion that it is something that has been staring me right in the face all along. Two things, actually.
They say that if it looks too good to be true, it probably is. Are my wife’s tits too good to be true? Somewhere in the recesses of my mind, the question gnawed away. They do seem preternaturally perfect. I have to do some sleuthing. I want to dig Cindy’s high school yearbook out of the attic — let’s see how busty she was back before we met.
First, however, I had to get lunch for Sam. He wanted chicken fingers from Raising Cane’s, so I started up the ol’ Subaru and went out to get some.
When I returned with the food, Cindy was in the garage stripping Sam’s hockey gear off our homemade PVC drying rack. “Lunch is here, Sam!” she called into the house.
“Thank you for going out to get his favorite meal, honey,” my wife said to me warmly. “I’m getting his equipment ready for practice. Together, we can assure the boy never has to lift a finger.”
We both shared a laugh. It was all just a joke. As an only child, Sam gets doted on, but we wouldn’t have it any other way. We live to spoil him.
We even help dress him for hockey practice. Sam can put on his own pads and neck guard, but I put his skates on, double-knot the laces for him and fasten the chin strap on his helmet.
“I’ll go with you guys,” Cindy said as she packed a blanket to keep us warm in the stands. “I hear the parents are going to be there.”
“Oh yeah?” I asked casually, as if I hadn’t known. “How did you hear about this practice anyhow?”
“Coach Todd sent out a group text,” my wife replied absentmindedly. She was searching the kitchen cabinets for Sam’s Gatorade bottle to fill up but it was missing — a common occurrence in the Rosen household.
“I didn’t get any group text,” I said.
“Do you know where Sam’s Gatorade bottle is?”
“I don’t,” I answered. “He might have forgotten it at the rink. When we get there, we should check the lost and found. Hey, where is the lost and found anyway?”
“Not sure,” Cindy said as she filled up a water bottle instead. “We can ask.”
I didn’t say anything more. I just watched my wife’s face intently, looking for any trace of deception. Even though I knew she was lying, I saw no hint of that in her expression or demeanor. What I saw instead was a beguiling blonde beauty who seemed entirely too comfortable presenting a false front, like it came second nature.
“Ok,” I said nonchalantly, putting on a false front of my own. I didn’t want to raise any suspicions as I carried on with the investigation. I don’t know whether Cindy has ever gone under the knife, but she’s about to go under the microscope. My wife is hiding something and I want to know what.
Or do I? The queasy feeling in my stomach made me fearful, but it’s too late. I’m too far gone to turn back now. Wisdom takes wing at dusk.
“Mike? Where are you? It’s time to go.”
“I’m in the attic,” I called down, tucking Cindy’s yearbook under my arm. “Be right there.”
When we got to the rink, I let Cindy help Sam get his huge rolling hockey bag out of the back, then I went to park the car. Before getting out, I took a moment to peruse the yearbook. I flipped through the names, searching for Cindy. When I found the picture of my wife at eighteen, her beauty was so ethereal that her face nearly floated off the page. She looked like an angeI. I took a moment to appreciate just how beautiful my wife had been in the first flush of womanhood. She must have been every guy’s fantasy. Unfortunately, however, her yearbook photo only showed her from the neck up; there was no way to determine the size of her breasts.
I studied her student profile, but it seemed unremarkable. She listed softball as her favorite sport, Indigo Girls as her favorite band and chemistry club as her favorite after school activity.
I flipped to the inside front cover, reading some of the messages and memories that her classmates had left for her. I had to laugh. It was a veritable treasure trove of cliches. “Never change, Cindy! You ended up being a pretty good lab partner!” That timeless pearl was shared by Cale, whoever that is. I skimmed through the trite bullshit and illegible scrawls, but nothing stood out.
That is, until I came upon the section of the yearbook dedicated to the teachers. Several of Cindy’s teachers had signed it. All but one of them had scribbled some sentimental banality, indistinguishable, really, from the inane stuff her classmates wrote. It must have been the blind leading the blind at her high school, I mused to myself. But her science teacher wrote something curious: “Sorry if your senior year didn’t go the way we planned, but I’ll never forget you and I think you’ll always be reminded of me, too.” She signed her name, “Ms. M.” The accompanying photo showed an attractive woman who looked to be in her late thirties. Her last name was printed under the picture: McKenzie. For a minute I kind of zoned out just staring at her lustily. Damn, Cindy’s science teacher was a stone cold MILF. Ms. McKenzie had it going on.
I wondered what went on between them to make Ms. M write that strange farewell in her yearbook. What “we” planned? My mind wrestled with possible explanations as I snapped the yearbook shut, tucked it out of sight and stepped out of the car on my way into practice. I shouldn’t leave Cindy unattended for too long in there, I realized, picking up my pace. I gave side eye to the security camera on my way inside the rink. I didn’t even think about the body camera noosed around my neck; already it had become too familiar to notice.