It's in the local newspapers, this story about a man on a business trip who meets a woman in a bar, goes up to her room, and steals some jewelry from her while she's "slipping into something more comfortable." The police are called, and he's arrested, and then released on his own recognizance.
That's all we know from the papers. We hope that there's another man with the same name from our area. There isn't. It's him, the father of a couple of kids at our kids' school, the husband of a woman quite active at our kids' school and in Little League.
We don't gossip about it, really. Or at least no one I talk to is talking about it. I'm sure there are plenty of others I don't chat with who find the subject fascinating. Oh, the fodder for the rumor mill.
Meanwhile, there's a woman I know, who I have come to like and appreciate and look past the nature I saw as overbearing in the past. And she's got to be hurting. We're not friends, really, although we've been to each other's houses and our oldest boys are friends. We share a friend in common, a close friend of mine and a friend in a casual sense to the woman.
I'm not in a position, really, to reach out and say, "Let me know if you need anything." We're close enough to do that in the face of death, but not in the face of presumed infidelity and spousal stupidity. My close friend is sending her a note, telling her that we're thinking of her and to let us know if she needs anything from either of us.
That, and inclusion in prayers for her and hers, is all we can do. "We," the ones watching because we care not because we want to see the gore of a car crash on the side of the road.