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OPEN COMMITMENT, Danielle - Opening Scene


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PROLOGUE 
This evening, my husband Rich handed me my glass of white wine and stated, “I want monogamy.” 
I smirked at him as he sat down on his side of the couch, but as I brought the glass to my lips, I looked at him and didn’t see the expression I expected. “Wait, are you serious?” I asked. 
“I am.” He looked at me, not looking away or down at his beer. He maintained that calm look of determination, not aggressive, just opening up the conversation. I stared at him over the rim of my wine glass, now frozen on my lips. 
Just like countless evenings before, we had just sat down on the couch to talk. Our daughter had come down the stairs a few minutes ago asking for a different stuffed animal because her brother got to sleep with the dog that night. Also, she needed new water. I brought her back up the stairs, tucked her into bed again, found the stuffie, placed it under the covers with her, said goodnight and went back downstairs into our living room. Rich had dimmed the lights and Nora Jones was playing through our downstairs speakers. I ignored the meticulous Jenga stacked dishes in the sink and the fact that neither the dishwasher nor washing machine would be run tonight. Rich was already on the couch when I sat down across from him and he stated, casually, like he was asking what would be for dinner that night, that he wanted to completely change the relationship lifestyle that we had been nurturing for over 10 years. But I could sense his controlled unease. 
I took a sip. “I know I’m in trouble, but is that what you want?” I pushed away the crayons and colored pencils into a pile and placed my wine glass on my side of the coffee table. 
He took a deep breath. “Yeah. At least for a little while.” 
“I don’t understand,” I said, although I had an idea. I knew he had been feeling distant from me for a while. 
His legs were up on the coffee table, crossed at the ankles. There were two cans of unopened beers placed within easy reach at his feet. His arms were crossed in front of his chest, facing the cold, empty fireplace. The pillows—which he normally used as cushions behind his back when he leaned against the arm of the couch —were piled between us. My legs were extended in front of me, my toes brushing the edges of the pillow pile. I was tucking the blanket in under my thighs and feet for warmth when he continued. 
“I’ve gotten to a point where, if you aren’t in the house, I’m wondering who you are having sex with… and besides…” 
“What!” I blurted. I had meant to let him get it all out, but I also knew all the things he was going to say. “That’s not fair at all. A few nights ago, I was out with friends, I texted you that I would be late, but I wasn’t hooking up with anyone.” 
“But I didn’t know that. I don’t know anymore.” He sighed and took a drink. “And I don’t trust you. Not the way I usually do."

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