
His laptop was old, but it worked. He was cool with me borrowing the one heâd had since college.
So I used it like I would use my own. That was, until I looked everywhere for a picture of a cartoon cat that Iâd just downloaded.
Nope.
I clicked through the Explorer and came across his dissertation amid old college work folders. Maybe I should have known better than to think, âAwww, heâs a great writerâI bet his essay is glorious.â Click! Click! Ah, here we…oh, holy shit?
In a folder marked with her pet name followed by five kisses were 30 naked photos of my partnerâs ex.
âThey were last accessed 6 months ago,â the OS helpfully informed.
You canât walk past a car crash without looking. Donât come at me with a shallow morality of âOh, you shouldnât be snooping,â because I defy every part of your evolutionary helix to not look when you want to know the life your Other Half had before you.
Did he still love her? Does he still love her?
Of course I was surprised.
In every other context it would be funnyâhere were images of overflowing breasts, pink and hairless vulva; a writhing torso flanked by bathtubs, messy beds and silk. Emailed photos. Skype stills. Selfies that were taken before selfies were a #norm. I have these things, too, and can pose in these waysâIâve done it for himâbut I wasnât in as good shape as her. Her hair was straight, her ass pert, and her nose was thinner and a whole lot more regal than my multiethnic squeeze-buttons of nostrils.
But worse were the scanned, insanely natural Polaroids with the two of them together, happy and in love.
Everything else just melted back into a mass of skin and genitalia, but the whole dripping mass of desire and passion that wasnât ours ripped me apart. Drop the laptop and run?
Nah, I quickly figured that wouldnât help. And everyone has a history! Itâs normal! He just forgot.
Of course I was being nosy. Of course I got stungâof course? Here was the paragon boyfriend who, in every hypothetical discussion of physical and emotional cheating, said he was a One Card Only Wager whoâd ditch at the first offense.
âItâs the only way,â he said. I ask him what, exactly, is the only way.
âEnd it.âŚIf you go that far…if you cheat, you donât love that person anymore.â
I think about him already having nuzzled my neck this afternoon as I cooked our dinner. I canât stop seeing him nuzzling her neck in a faded photograph.
Heâs had the photos on his computer for the whole of the five years weâve been together, so maybe heâs never loved me at all.
Today I write this on his laptop, wondering what a sixth year would actually look like.