It didn’t, really, but I wanted to know. She told me she’d met him at a fundraiser for the earthquake victims in Haiti. I remembered that fundraiser, she’d put a lot of time and effort into it.

You were supposed to be doing a good deed for your karma, I said, not looking for other men to fuck.

I wasn’t looking, she said.

It just happened? I said.

That’s how many of these things happen, she said, they just do.

Things happen. Shit happens. Some things just happen, dear. One day, you’re walking down the street minding your own bees wax, the next day, you’re allowing some strange man who’s not your husband to take dirty pictures of you.

[4]

Anna told me her period was late and when I asked her what did that mean she replied, rather sarcastically: What do you think it means?

I said: You’re forty-three years old, you can’t be pregnant and she said that of course she could be; that it could still happen. I haven’t reached menopause yet and won’t for at least another decade, she said.

Is it his? I asked.

You and I haven’t been intimate in almost half a year, she said.

How many men have you slept with since then? I asked.

Don’t even go there, she said.

Two days later she said she was spotting, and then her period came the next day, and the following day she said: All is clear, I’m not knocked up, so we don’t have to worry.

[5]

Shit happened. The photos kept popping up online, on social media web sites and free blog services.

The same photos and different ones, other positions, other body parts.

Every time a new posting appeared, she or I would get an anonymous e-mail pointing to the URL. The fellow wanted me to know about the things my wife did with him. Anna would notify the administrators of the sites and a week or two later the pages would be shut down and then others would appear elsewhere.

Her ex-lover was relentless.

[6]

Waited for my wife’s ex-lover outside the high school. I stalked him. I sat in my car across the street from the high school and watched him leave his classroom and get into his car. I followed him back to his apartment.

The photos kept popping up online, on social media web sites and free blog services. The same photos and different ones, other positions, other body parts.

Didn’t know what I was going to do. I didn’t have a plan. Confront him? Attack him? Break his legs? Take him out for a beer and trade Anna stories?

I wanted to see what he looked like.

Greg Black kind of looked like me.

[7]

Next came the videos. He had web cam videos of the two of them having sex, of Anna masturbating, of him inserting foreign objects between her legs while she was passed out on his bed.

These moving images showed up on YouTube first. YouTube immediately deleted them. They showed up on adult-oriented web sites that refused to take them down in the name of free speech.

I want to kill him, Anna said.

She said: I’m going to hire some Hell’s Angels or a mafia hit man to cash his check. Punch his ticket, she said. Pull his plug, she went.

She went: I have fantasies of killing him myself.

[8]

Black was arrested a few weeks later. He was caught with one of his female students, a fourteen-year-old girl who had taken photos of him with her iPhone – still images that he wasn’t aware of. She sent these pictures to some of her friends, because she thought it was cool to be sleeping with a teacher three times her age; some of those friends distributed the pics on MySpace and Twitter because they

also found it cool to be doing the hawt English teacher. A mother of one of the girls happened to see the photos and didn’t think the matter was all that cool or hot, and she went to the police.

The English teacher posted bail and disappeared. News reports stated the cops thought he fled across the border into Mexico.

[9]

The border is a one-hour drive from where Anna and I live.

I don’t know what I was thinking, going into Tijuana. I wasn’t thinking – like so many of us tend not to.

I wanted to be away from all the gossip and the pointing fingers.

I hadn’t been to Tijuana since my teens and twenties, back when it was fun to drink beer and party in clubs, and spend time with $20 prostitutes.

That’s where I found myself: in Zona Norte, the red light district. The place didn’t seem all that different from two decades ago.

Not much changes in Tijuana, except the exchange rate of the peso and the dollar. I got drunk like Anna did and wandered among the street

Next came the videos. He had web cam videos of the two of them having sex, of Anna masturbating, of him inserting foreign objects between her legs while she was passed out on his bed.

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