You don't have to prove to me you're beautiful to strangers

I've got loving eyes of my own…

- Carly Simon, You Belong to Me

I'm waiting in bed, alone. My wife's promised to try to make it home by midnight. 'Late night', she claimed. She really must not think much of me, if she thinks that I don't smell another man's cologne on her every Tuesday night.

Once I confronted her, and she slipped out of it, smooth as oil. "Honey, some of the guys in the office wear a little too much. When you sit in a boardroom next to them all day, you smell like it too."

That would be a great excuse, so I let it slide. Except that she smells like scent and sweat all mixed up and jumbled together. The first few times she came slinking in and ran straight to the shower. Then she figured out that I was on to her, so she just marches in as bold as brass and snuggles up to me if I'm already in bed, cooing about how much she's missed me.

Once I almost said, "I'm sure that your lover keeps you distracted, since you miss me so much," but decided why bother? I'm not actually mad with her. I'm not even sure I'd be mad with the guy, especially since I've got a good idea of whom it is. He's been pining after her for years now, nearly going insane with jealousy when she married me instead of him. Well, now that he's been sleeping with her, I'm sure that he feels suckered as well. After all, sex isn't where she gives her heart. The day-to-day living and the talks are the real meat and potatoes of my relationship with her, and the sex is more or less icing. And as any fool knows, you can't eat a steady diet of sugar for long without getting real nauseous. If he's giving his heart to her, he's in for a hell of a bad feeling when she finally gets bored.

I wonder why she's screwing around. I give her what she keeps claiming she wants; respect in a healthy dose, a listening ear, a compassionate mind. When she decided that she wanted to feel empowered, I willingly accepted the role of housewife and let her get a corporate job. I have dinner waiting for her nightly unless she calls and says that she wants to eat out, in which case I make reservations and meet her at the door with roses. I sympathize with her work issues, rub her back and her feet, draw her baths and help her comb out her hair when it snarls. And for this, she repays me by working non-existent hours at a job that ends by 5:30 at latest and fucking another guy.

I suppose that I'm just too much of a softy. But I really don't know of another way to be. I was just raised in a different era, I guess, an era in which a spouse's infidelity was hushed up and pushed aside for the benefit of the children. But there are no children here to be hurt by a divorce, no young lives to rip apart with biweekly visits. I should divorce her. But I won't. She'll get bored with him, and as patient as he's been to wait for her all this time, I am infinitely more calculating. He is hot-blooded and occasionally rash; I am cool, crafty. Perhaps that's the attraction; her attempts at spontaneity, gone awry.

The door opens downstairs. I lie here, waiting to hear her stealthy tread on the steps. She has gotten quieter with time and practice, but I can hear the compression of the carpet beneath her delicate toes. She is creeping upstairs. I don't know why, but I'm aroused.

The bedroom door cracks open, and she slips in. She looks so cute in that pink suit. The moonlight makes it look white. Almost. She's almost pure. I watch without movement or sound as she sheds the suit and doffs the cap, peels away her nylons after removing her shoes. She pulls the cover back and slides into bed next to me. Her nude body is cold.

I finally look at her, admiring her freckles. They're just barely visible. "Hard day at work, honey?"

"You know it," she responds, coming in for the kill. Her hair spills all around me, and I can smell her; cologne and sweat. When is she gonna learn? "I missed you, baby."

I try not to roll my eyes, and graciously accept her kiss. Although she smells tainted, her mouth tastes right, at least until she deepens the kiss. Her tongue meets my own, and I get the sensation of musk. She didn't even brush her teeth this time? Does she want me to know? Shaking my head, I twist, flipping her over my frame so that she lies prone on her back. She stares up at me with green eyes.

Green. The color of jealousy.

All the same, I thrust myself into her downy entrance, groaning. Unfaithful though she is, she still arouses me wildly, and she's still my wife. As often as she goes to this other man – I believe that she's stepped it up to once a week – she still wears my ring and still comes home to me every night. Still gives me her meat and potatoes. And the icing. I watch, fascinated, as her dusky nipples become hard pebbles on her chest.

Her nails scrape my stomach muscles as we grind together.

I'm a fool, to be certain. But I'm her fool. Her lover cannot claim this, because ironically enough he does not love her. The look in his eyes as she walks past him could hardly be considered adoration, lust or really even desire. He's simply playing tag.

Her hands reach up for my face, brushing along my cheekbones. I kiss her fingers, knowing that the end is near. The sound of my voice, harsh and excited in the silence of the room, is a sharp contrast to her soft sighs.

I come inside her with a scream, all of the feelings washed away in a foamy spray. She is only moments behind, reaching her own climax as I withdraw. I pull her close, rubbing her back. Rubbing off her sweat. Rubbing away his scent. I don't think that he holds her much. It's too easy to get rid of his smell.

I lay her back down after several moments and cover her with the sheets, making sure to set the clock for 8 a.m. She murmurs her thanks and begins her descent into sleep.

"I love you, Jean," I say softly as I fluff my pillow. Which is true, even though it's being said immediately following the throes of ecstasy. I love her despite her unfaithfulness and her feeble lies. I think that one day she will actually love me enough to try to get to know me, so that this charade can end and we can actually be man and wife instead of just playing at it.

"Hmm?" she asks sleepily.

I kiss her cheek and cuddle against her. For once, it won't bother me to repeat something that anyone else would have heard. "I love you, Jean."

She smiles without opening her eyes. "I love you too, Logan. Good night."

A/N: Surprised you, didn't I?

I suppose this could be an AU in which the X-Men have none of their powers, especially in light of how meek Logan is, Scott's indifference and Jean's…erm, skankiness. I'm content to end the tale here, but if you'd like me to continue, you can always let me know via feedback. Flames? Gonna have a good laugh at 'em, but go ahead if you are so inclined.