The Tuesday after viewing William’s deck and the bold introduction by the carpenter building it, I returned to seen see the finished work. Crossing the Narrows Bridge on the way over, I reflected on how it once collapsed in a windstorm. While on the bridge an ominous premonition of danger pervaded me.
Am I being followed? Have I covered everything? I’ll pull off the road and see if anyone else does.
Stopping at a gas station, I went through my pedantic circumspection checklists. No insinuation of a slip up came to mind. Each possible exposure hazard was refuted and as the gas nozzle bucked back indicating a full tank, it was apparent no one followed me. With recouped confidence, I banished my foreboding and drove back on the highway to William’s, yet a premonition of danger clung to my subconscious.
As always, he stood by the midlevel living room window for my arrival, pushed the garage door opener when I drove onto the driveway, went to the garage stairs top landing to greet me, and pushed the close garage door button as I parked. The garage door rumbled down shut as I alighted just before noon. At the top of the stairs, he greeted me with a kiss and a glass of wine. My misgivings dissipated with the first sip.
After wine, cheese, and admiration of the new deck, we went to his bedroom for our leisurely romp, the door closed but ajar as was his fastidious ritual. After my top mount, we rolled over for his stylistic finish as we looked at one another while he moved slowly in and out to avoid a premature ejaculation.
To extend play time he periodically ceased movement to let his penis calm down. Sometimes he would even stiffen and jerk it out for a little respite.
He suddenly stiffened and jerked it out. I smiled to encourage its reentry but his face flashed fear. He arched back. He was listening to something awry.
The door slammed open against the wall. She screamed.
He leaped upright and turned to face her. Enraged, she took off and threw a peach-colored pump at me which hit the headboard, a near miss.
Closer, she flung the other with better aim as I sat up. It hit my shoulder hard as she screamed,
"Slut, you, fucking whore!"
She collapsed in a heap on the floor. William rushed naked, except for the condom on his withering penis, to her. She lay crumpled, sobbing over and over, "You bastard!" until it became a whimper.
He tried to hold her but she pushed him away. He sat naked next to her as she sobbed while he pleaded over and over.
I sat ignored on the bed, only a sheet for protection, holding my bruised shoulder as she lay on the floor askew, hugging one knee with the other leg splayed out. Her skirt had risen, and I saw she wore a peach-colored slip which matched the color of the pumps she threw.
She stopped her whimpering and sobbing, “You bastard”, looked up at me, her mascara streaked down her cheeks, a mess. I saw hate. I stared then at him, saw his sobbed, “I’m sorry”, love pleas. He loved her.
I’m abandoned. She hates me! He loves her! I’m nothing!
Throwing the false safety of the sheet aside, I scampered out of bed, grabbed my clothes and purse, ran out of the bedroom, and dressed on the run down the spiral staircase. When my feet felt the landing, I realized I’d left my panty and a pearl necklace William had given me as a present behind. I reached up and pushed the garage door opener.
On the garage cold cement floor, I hopped around until my blouse, skirt finally shoes were jammed into by feet, thankfully flats. Picking up my purse and bra I pushed the car door opener. My desire for the safety of my car and escape numbed the shoulder pain. Sliding on the car seat I reflected.
Panty and necklace, don’t care, get out of here, just get out, go home, thank God, I didn't take off hubby's earrings and bracelet. Necklace and panty, there’re his now, like she is. She can have him and them. Ha, I hope she wears them! Love to see that! She’s right he’s a bastard and the bastards’ all hers.
Roughly dressed, the car door closed and locked, I got the car key from my purse as the garage finished door clanking open.
When I turned the key, relief, the car started. I looked in the rear-view mirror. I too was a mess with smeared lipstick, streaked mascara, matted hair, and blouse askew. Looking beyond myself in the mirror, I realized her car was a beige colored Mercedes too.
It was in the driveway! It blocked my escape! I turned, cranked my neck right then to the left to scan for a squeeze passageway.
There must be a side to squeeze through!
Oh no, no way, I’m trapped!
I turned off the motor and tried to calm myself with my head against the steering wheel, crying. I was stuck. She had to come down and move the car. I had to let her know. I tapped the horn and waited. I tapped again and then honked and then a longer honk. I opened the door and screamed.
"Get me out of here!"
There was no response. I waited, counted to 100, then layed down hard on the horn until eventually he came, wearing a bathrobe but without shoes. He had her keys. He tippy-toed to her car on the rough gravel and backed her car out of the way. He didn’t look at me. I didn’t return his indifference. I pushed the window down button, stuck my hand out and waved him the finger as I sped back out of the driveway onto the safety of the frontage road while holding the horn down.
On the road home I screamed and cried until calmed to sniffles. I mentally started with a scream.
She's right, he's a bastard, and I'm a slut and a fucking whore.
Driving on, I belittled myself, over his leaving me to fend for myself as he chanted over her.
It's obvious she's his love entrée, I'm only hors d'oeuvre, no, dessert, only desert. Ha, just cheap ice-cream dessert! Ha, I'm chocolate ice cream!
By the time I reached the Narrows Bridge.
No, I’m his appetizer. The cheapo one, Calamari! No, a cheap won ton!
I'm just a bowl of soup made from leftovers, no, just a salad. I’m tossed green, no shrimp or crab, not even blue cheese just spinach!
Turning off I-5 I dropped to just snack food and pulling into the driveway it was just a potato chip, a chip without a dip.
I worked myself into a fury again of how he treated me as I undressed but when showering burst out laughing, I had it all wrong.
He's the potato chip. He's junk food. It's time for me to diet!
Out in the yard, I trimmed roses, felt better as I laughed about Mr. Potato Chip. My entrée would be home soon. I went back in the house and started cooking for him.
While things were in the oven, I redressed and put on fresh makeup. We ate with candlelight and a bottle of pinot wine. After dessert, we had Drambuie to warm the glow of our repast. I was again a wife. I enjoyed making and being my husband's entrée, back to who I, in reality, was.
I erased thoughts of Mr. Potato Chip, put him in the kid’s Mr. Potato Head category, a joke.
The confrontation by his true love, her slung shoe, her scream, “Slut, you, you fucking whore” slur, my shoulder pain, all left behind, so I assumed.
My premonition driving to William’s and they, however, came back to haunt me.
Author Notes: Confronted by another woman an adulteress wife realizes her lover dosn't love her, has no respect for her and she is best off without him.
She thinks it's over but it's just begining.