He found the letters by accident. Maybe that’s what made it worse. He was, in fact, looking for a pair of misplaced cuff links, a present from the in-laws – little wonder they stirred up so much trouble. Having looked everywhere else, he finally turned to her almirah, the one thing she kept for herself; it always bothered him. “Paid for by my credit card. My platinum Amex,” he would mutter often.
He had hardly opened those delicately craved doors, when the letters tumbled out, like they were waiting for him, waiting to be found by him. The envelopes were slightly bloated in the middle, and the edges were hard and wrinkled. They gave off a musky aroma – of Cuban cigars and the open salty seas. There was even a hint of Old Spice on one.
He read each letter, uncovering every secret held on the delicate paper. The words were heart wrenchingly beautiful. Some crying out in lonely desperation, some bruised by violent passion, and some so poetic, even the violets on the dresser blushed. He placed the letters back in their envelopes, his hands shaking. He felt very old, very used. And then he grew angry. It’s one thing if your wife is cheating on you, but it’s quite another if it’s your mistress