Perhaps it should be obvious: Adultery is a social threat that

Host: The evening was heavy with the scent of rain-soaked asphalt and burnt coffee. The diner on the corner sat like a wounded heart, its fluorescent lights flickering against the dark. Inside, a lone jukebox murmured an old ballad, the kind that bleeds slowly, note by note.
Jack and Jeeny sat by the window, the city’s reflection rippling across their faces. A half-eaten pie, two cups of black coffee, and a silence that felt like a third presence.

Jeeny: “It’s strange, isn’t it, Jack? How one act—adultery—can ignite so much violence, so much rage. As if a single moment of desire can undo the fabric of an entire society.”

Jack: “Strange? No, Jeeny. Predictable. Society runs on order. You break that order—especially where sex and trust are concerned—and people lash out. It’s primal. A social threat, like Mary Gaitskill said. A threat that must be... purged.”

Host: The rain began again, tapping gently against the windowpane, like an anxious rhythm keeping time with their conversation. Jeeny watched the drops slide, her eyes reflecting the motion, slow and pensive.

Jeeny: “But why always the woman, Jack? Why must the anger always find her? The philandering wife, the so-called home-wrecker. Men betray too. Yet the rage—the public humiliation, the shame—it’s always laid on the woman’s back.”

Jack: “Because history wrote it that way. Not fair, not right, but... functional. In older societies, lineage, inheritance, property—they depended on knowing who the father was. So female fidelity wasn’t just a moral thing; it was economic stability. You lose that certainty, you risk the tribe’s structure.”

Jeeny: “So you’re saying it’s just a transaction? That love, trust, marriage—they’re all business contracts disguised as emotions?”

Jack: “In a sense, yes. Humans are animals with a paperwork problem. We dress up instinct with ceremony, but underneath, it’s the same. Possession, fear, survival.”

Host: Jack’s voice was low, rough—like gravel against steel. He stared into his coffee, as if the steam carried a memory he didn’t want to face. Jeeny leaned forward, her hands clasped, her tone trembling between pain and defiance.

Jeeny: “Then why do we still call it love, Jack? Why do we still pretend it’s sacred if what we’re protecting is just territory?”

Jack: “Because it’s easier that way. People need stories to hide their instincts. It keeps them civil.”

Jeeny: “Civil?” (She laughed, but her voice cracked.) “Civilization is a word for polite cruelty. We’ve built a world where a woman can be stoned, divorced, shamed, or silenced—not for violence, not for theft—but for desire. Tell me, Jack, what’s civil about that?”

Host: The diner’s clock ticked, slow and merciless, counting each second like a gavel. Outside, a police siren wailed, then faded into the distance.

Jack: “You’re not wrong. But that rage—that ‘raw anger and fear’ Gaitskill mentioned—it’s not just male control. It’s collective panic. Adultery cracks the illusion of safety. It says, ‘Even love can betray you.’ That terrifies people.”

Jeeny: “But we all betray. In thought, in silence, in the heart. Why must we destroy women for the sins everyone commits in private?”

Jack: “Because she becomes the symbol. Every society needs a scapegoat, Jeeny. In religion, it was Eve. In politics, it’s dissenters. In love, it’s the woman who breaks the rule.”

Jeeny: “And men? Don’t they break it too?”

Jack: “Of course they do. But society forgives the predator and crucifies the prey. Because the system was built by men, for men.”

Host: The lights above them buzzed, then dimmed, casting their faces in the amber glow of a dying bulb. Jeeny’s eyes were fierce now—wet but unwavering.

Jeeny: “You sound almost resigned, Jack. Like this is the way it has to be.”

Jack: “No. Just the way it’s been. Every civilization justifies cruelty by calling it custom. The Greeks did it, the Victorians did it. Hell, in 1955, a woman could lose custody of her children just for being accused of adultery. Not proven—accused.”

Jeeny: “And yet, the man walked free.”

Jack: “Usually, yes. Because society fears the woman who acts on her own desire. Desire is power. And power in women—especially sexual power—has always been labeled dangerous.”

Host: The rain outside turned into a downpour, pounding against the glass like a thousand unspoken words. Inside, the diner seemed to shrink, the air thick with tension and something darker—truth.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what Gaitskill meant, Jack. The threat isn’t the act—it’s the freedom behind it. A woman who follows her desire reminds the world that control is an illusion. That’s what frightens them.”

Jack: “Maybe. But you can’t deny that betrayal destroys people. I’ve seen it. Families shattered, trust gone. There’s real damage.”

Jeeny: “Yes, Jack. But that’s not a reason for hate—it’s a reason for understanding. We punish what we don’t want to face in ourselves. That’s why anger at adultery feels so raw—it’s a mirror. It shows us our own hunger, our own weakness.”

Host: Jack looked up, his eyes catching hers, something in them softening, cracking. The rain began to ease, the storm spent.

Jack: “So what—you think we should stop condemning it altogether?”

Jeeny: “No. Just stop pretending it’s evil. It’s human. The question isn’t who betrayed—it’s why we built a world so fragile that one act of love outside the rules can destroy everything.”

Jack: “You call it love?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes. Sometimes it’s loneliness. Sometimes it’s rebellion. Sometimes it’s a cry for meaning in a world that treats marriage like a contract and desire like a crime.”

Host: The jukebox clicked, and a new song began—something slow, melancholic, a voice from another decade. Jack sighed, a deep, reluctant breath, then nodded.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right, Jeeny. Maybe adultery isn’t the disease. Maybe it’s the symptom. A symptom of a society that worships ownership more than connection.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. We cage people in promises and call it morality. But the heart… it doesn’t sign contracts.”

Host: The rain had stopped completely now. The window was streaked but clear, and in its reflection, they both seemed older—two people who had seen too much and understood too late.

Jack: “You know what scares me most?”

Jeeny: “What?”

Jack: “That maybe what we call betrayal is just honesty with bad timing.”

Jeeny: “Or truth that dared to arrive.”

Host: The diner grew quiet, save for the low hum of the neon sign outside—Open All Night. The camera would have pulled back then, showing them through the glass, small figures in a world that punishes desire yet thrives on it.

And above the hum of the city, a voice, like Gaitskill’s, would seem to echo—that adultery is not merely a moral crime, but a mirror, forcing us to confront the fragility of our order, the rage that hides our fear, and the loneliness beneath our laws.