Pad Thai Passion

The following is fiction, what I like to call an ADR Fic Bit.

It was when he was halfway through his sub-par Pad Thai that Mo first thought of adultery. Not adultery in general, but as it pertained to him and his wife Tally. They’d been married five years now. They had two small kids who were plenty cute, and brought him bursts of joy. But still. The thought that his life would be limp and rather blah like the noodles he ate now because he had nothing better to do made him silently recoil.

His wife was not onto him. She picked at her basil shrimp, oblivious to his mind’s naughty detour. She sipped her wine slowly. Mo concluded that it would turn him on to see her drink it with urgency. But she never did. She always had one glass of the same Chardonnay, measured out. 4 oz. 100 calories.

The thing that screwed with him is that he couldn’t come up with another woman for even a fictional frolic. The barista at Starbucks was jolly, but nothing more than that. The women in his law office were asexual at best, swimming in a sad sea of beige twin sets, withering and washed out. There was that one woman at the boutique where he bought his wife that orange scarf once. She was certainly hot. But the fact that he was there with instructions from his wife scribbled on a small pink notecard made him feel positively dickless.

He looked down. His pad thai was missing. He looked over and his wife was cradling the tin, pulling long noodles from it, slurping them down. She had sauce on her face, a thin soy mustache. She smiled.

Suddenly, she was beautiful.

Pour me another, she said waving her glass at him, as if she knew.

And as he stood to head for the fridge, he felt something he hadn’t felt in a while. He poured far more than 4 oz.

They’d share it.