He’s busted. You’ve caught him. Good job! Now what?
You step to him, ask him how he could disrespect you and put your relationship in jeopardy. You remind him of all he’s about to lose and all he could have had. You had a bag packed before he even got home; someone will arrive later for the rest. This is it... Michael Jackson. No more “I love you,” no more whiffs of the love below, no more arm candy, no more cook or nurse-maid or secretary-- no more you after today.
What does he have to say for himself? Not much, surprisingly. It’s what he does that takes you aback: he weeps like Jesus.
I deduced long ago that a man can’t cry in front of his woman whenever the mood suits him. She’d think he was a punk and eventually become abusive (such weakness breeds cruelty). No-- a man gets two cries.
The first cry can be as simple as a single rolling tear. This one is most useful when he’s been called insensitive, selfish, mean, or even-- gasp!-- noncommittal. This tear brings you back into his eye, into that deep pool you dove into headfirst when you two first linked up. It’s also good for the kind of passionate sex that earlier times afforded him, rather than the tired wrestling match that ensues now that you feel you don’t have to work so hard to please him.
The second cry, stationed behind emergency glass, is a true performance-- Richard Gere, Officer and a Gentleman shit (“I got nowhere else to go!”). He may fall to his knees and produce snot. His mouth may open up and resemble the Holland Tunnel. He may not break eye contact for a full minute! Dialogue is optional:
“Baby, I was out of my mind. I had to be… to disrespect you. I love you. That girl, she doesn’t mean shit to me. I’m crazy, that’s it! I’ve gone crazy. Take me to the hospital psych ward, commit my ass. They’ll tell you for sure, ‘He’s a goddamn nut, ma'am.’ Please, baby… I only want to be crazy for you now-- the bat-shit love of your life.”
The second cry doesn’t always work, but it works more than you’d like.