Your wife… Cleopatra
Let’s assume you are in a happy relationship. There aren’t any real problems. You don’t argue. You have intercourse about twice or thrice a week.
It is an ideal constellation for her to take on a secret lover. Sure, she loves you. Or, in fact, she may just think that, well, you’re an okay guy.
You yourself wouldn’t pass up an opportunity to have a relationship on the side.
You yourself may think that your sideline affair is of no major importance and poses no threat to the steady relationship you’re in.
But if you knew about her lover, you would be really hurt. Your heart would scream: how could she do this to you? How could she, on Sunday morning, spend two or three hours in your embrace, have two climaxes, tell you how much she loves you, and then, while you are out buying groceries, call her other man and tell him that she misses him?
The fact is: she can. Just as you can.
I remember a nightmare I once had about Queen Cleopatra. I imagined that eating human flesh, cut into small pieces, threaded onto a skewer, and barbecued over charcoal, was one of her favorites. So, every other day, the chef and his aides would round up two or three young palace servants and sacrifice them, just for the sake of preparing a meal for the queen.
Fuck it. Why couldn’t she eat some wholesome vegetables? Just for the fleeting pleasure of eating a juicy piece of meat—a pleasure that lasts only a few minutes and is not a major one after all—she ruins the life of a servant.
Your wife would be a Cleopatra if she had the opportunity and it was risk-free. Just as you would be a Nero.
That comfortable little love relationship you’re in is an illusion. The illusion within it is “love.” In reality, you’re just a piece of territory to her. She’ll acquire other properties if she can get them for a bargain.