Save One Bullet

Shaking myself back to life after my near miss with death and prison, I checked on my phone for motels in the area and found three that looked promising. The closest one was the ‘Rest Inn’. It was five minutes away from my location, so I drove past it, quickly. Ugh. Nope. Not while I still had working credit cards.

The next motel was even scarier looking, so I opted for the Homewood Suites on the other side of town. At least it would be clean and safe. The night clerk barely looked at me, or at my odd wardrobe. In the morning I would stop in to look in on my mother and snag a few of her slacks and blouses to get me through until I could sneak back and get my own clothes while Tom was at work.

My next planned substitute day was on Thursday, so that gave me two days to get some of my ducks in a row. I had a gun now, so I could shoot those ducks too if I chose. I was finally getting the chance to get my ducks lined up.

I’d push off going home as long as I wanted and Tom would never be the wiser, nor would he care. My mother had frequent emergencies when she could not remember where she was or who the people around her were. Much of my time was taken up at the nursing home, keeping her grounded.

The book club didn’t meet again until next Monday, so most of my obligations were taken care of. I’d just stay at the Homewood Suites until this card was maxed out. There was a Denny’s all-night restaurant down the road from the hotel, so I stopped there and ignored the strange looks my odd assortment of clothing got from the staff.

While eating my early breakfast it dawned on me that I could do whatever I wanted to. An invisible spirit floating above my own reality. Is this what freedom felt like after 20 years of being joined at the ring finger to a man-baby? Always being there for his convenience, doing his laundry, cooking, dishes, and cleaning up after him while he whined about all the hard work and hours he was putting into his career, ‘for us’.

A weight lifted off my chest when I realized my only responsibilities, unless I chose otherwise, would be to myself and my mother. No more insufferable golf games to make up a foursome, with my husband nagging and criticizing every freakin’ swing and complaining that if he wasn’t stuck with me, he would have won. No more late evenings and early mornings prepping for the work bar-b-ques, which he Insisted always be held at our house. He would tell me what to prepare and I would dutifully create these monstrous salads, dips, and snacks for his beer-guzzling office homies and their mistresses of the month or spoiled wives, whom I had absolutely nothing in common with. It seemed as though once everything was served, there was simply no reason for me to stick around, as no one even noticed if I stayed or left. Not even Tom.

Not that I was a perfect person, as I remembered one time when I was particularly annoyed with having to cook hours for people I could barely stand to be near. So annoyed, in fact, that I spit into the onion dip as I was mixing it up. Spit, spat, sput? I’m not sure which of those apply. But yes, they were enjoying it, thinking that double-dipping was the only problem.

Without his slave to cook up his bar-b-q side dishes I wondered if he would try to return his Grille-Boss-5000 and get his money back. Money, which he would need for the divorce lawyer, I thought, giggling over the Eggs over My Hammy and coffee, hoping that the cook was not as evil as I had been.