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| Flickr/RossPollack |
Scene- At a restaurant. She is talking to someone but you cannot see them.
I
read the word Martial wrong today as I was driving around town. But wouldn’t it
be great if there really was a Marital Arts Academy? I’m sure my husband and I
would have lasted longer if there was one. We could have taken so many classes: how to fairly divide chores, how to balance your finances, how to not sleep
with other people. It didn’t take me long to figure it
out. He smelled different. He would avoid being intimate with me. He would stay
at work long after the office closed and then lie to me that it was the
traffic. He would disappear getting groceries for hours and then come back with
a few granola bars, some fruit, and a carton of orange juice already opened...clearly from her fridge. I asked him about the juice and he said he got thirsty
on the way home. Apparently my husband thought I was a dumbass.
I
held out letting him know that I knew what was going on. I bid my time and
found a good lawyer. I got more than my share out of the divorce. I am not
greedy. I didn’t ask him to do what he did.
I
got a new car. Actually I got his car. I made sure of it. It was the one thing
he wanted to keep most so it was the one thing I knew I had to take. And
besides, being single is easier when you have an Aston Martin. As soon as you
step out of your car, men ask you for your number. It’s like you’re a celebrity.
In fact I have my number written on a very large piece of paper that I keep in
the front seat. I hold it up when I see a hot guy eyeing me from adjacent
vehicles at stop lights.
So
I go to dinner almost every night. I pick them up of course. They pay for the
meal and if the attraction is there, afterwards I re-park in a secluded spot and
we fuck. We fuck all over his, now my Aston Martin. It gives me pleasure to
watch the cum squirt all over the leather seats. If only Rick knew what I did
in it. No, it’s not completely revolting. I clean it
up after before the next one... I keep a packet of Clorox in the backseat. What kind of woman do you think I am?
As
I was saying, my ex-husband can’t seem to get over the fact that I got his car.
And you know what makes me sick? He named his car Regina. That’s right, after
the bitch. I believe he started his affair shortly after he got it. I cringe
when I think about how many times he told me, “I’m going out. I’ll be taking
Regina out for a ride.” I’m sure he met Regina because of the car. Otherwise
why would she be interested? My husband had gained plenty of marriage weight.
It’s not fair at all. Women, we spend our whole lives wanting to get married to
only have our men look like shit after. And there I was wasting the best years
of my life, staying faithful, still looking my youthful hottie self, all the
while he picks up some young broad to do his business with.
He
may not have his “Regina” back but he is still seeing her...that woman that is.
I know what she looks like. He brought her to our last appointment. She waited
outside. She’s petite but flat-chested. I suppose a pretty face, but hardly a
woman. I can’t imagine what he saw in her over me. Anyways I’m glad I don’t
have to see her anymore. I won't be seeing her ever again. I made sure of it.
What? What
do you mean you’ve heard enough? What is this? Who are you? I didn’t do it. I meant that figuratively.
What match? How could my car be seen at the scene of the crime? I wasn’t even at the lounge
last night. I don’t care if eyewitnesses placed me there. What evidence? On the
grill? It must be a mistake. Please. Let me call my lawyer. Let me call my
lawyer!
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