After my husband, Tom, went berserk on me, I couldn't wait to pack my shit up and get out of that house. Returning for the last load of belongings, which now would include every stitch of décor that wasn’t nailed down, I saw a familiar vehicle in the driveway. Shit. Marcia. What was she doing here?
She got out of her car and waved tentatively to me as I pulled into the driveway. More curious than aggravated I said hello and invited her in. “Sorry about the mess. Just trying to get packed up before Tom gets out of jail.”
“Oh, Tanya, I am so sorry for everything. I mean everything. This is my fault. I never thought Tom would act like this to you,” she confessed, head down and fake tears running down her face.
“Marcia, I’ve known all along about you and Tom. Am I pissed with you? Yes. Is what Tom did to me your fault? No. He was drunk and out of control. He attacked me. Not you. Tell me though, does he know about you and Ned?”
“Yeah, someone told him about seeing us at dinner the night I saw you. Did you tell him?” she accused.
“No way. I was trying to keep my shit together until I could get him to sign separation papers. He had no idea I knew about you two or anyone else. Can I ask you something?”
Lips trembling, she said, “Yeah, okay?”
“Are you screwing everyone in the office or just Ned and Tom? Do I need to get tested for STDs?”
“Oh, God. No. No.” she protested, covering her face with her hands and looking faint. “You’ve been having sex with Tom?” she asked, looking shocked.
“Well, Marcia, he is my husband. I suppose that’s what most married folks do. Here, let’s go to the kitchen and talk. You like Red Cat?” I asked, leading the way to the kitchen table and offering her a chair. I pulled the one last remaining wine glass out of the cupboard and plunked the giant bottle between us after pouring her a full glass.
She began her sad tale, “I broke up with Tom Friday night. He kept promising to get a divorce, I’m sorry, this is so shitty of me to tell you all this. We’ve been seeing each other for almost a year. Sneaking around, lying, hiding. He never took me anywhere and I always had to be available, you know?” She whined into my mostly unsympathetic ears.
“Well, when you’re the side chick that is sort of how it goes. So, you went right from Tom to Ned? How is that any better?” I asked, genuinely curious about how her pea-brain processed these affairs.
She took a gulp of wine and continued her sob story, “Well, I started dating Ned after the company Christmas party. We both got kind of drunk and went at it in his office. We’ve been seeing each other ever since when we could. I promised him I was finally going to give Tom a chance to shit or get off the pot. Ned promised to marry me after he got rid of Dottie,” she shared conspiratorially as if we were college roomies dishing the dirt on our boyfriends.
“Wait, if Tom wouldn’t ‘get rid’ of me, then Ned was going to ‘get rid’ of Dottie? I hope you’re talking about divorce and not murder,” I said, appalled at her lack of emotion as she described her twisted office games.
“Yeah, that was the plan. Then, someone told Tom that Ned and I were fucking, and he lost it. He left work early yesterday and now he’s in jail, I don’t know what to do. Are you going to divorce him? Or should I stay with Ned? Which one do you think would be better? I mean, Tom is better-looking and younger. But Ned has more money. He is kind of gross though.” She put her head in her hands and sighed, “It’s so hard to decide, you know?”
I was hearing this shit but couldn’t believe someone was actually dumb enough to say it all out loud. I poured her another full glass of wine to see just how deep her pool of stupid was. This was fascinating.
“Well, Marcia, I haven’t made up my mind what I’m going to do with Tom. With my mom dying and all, I haven’t given him much thought this week, except for when he beat and raped me,” I explained, using crayons to draw stick figures so she would understand.
“Oh, yeah. Sorry. That’s right. Sorry for your loss. But, anyway, what would you do if you were me?” She persisted as if I could give one shit about her life choices at this particular moment.
“Here, let me pour you more wine, Marcia.” I topped off her glass and shared something with her from the bottom of my heart, or shoe, or something. “I hate to tell you this, Marcia, but Tom has been seeing someone else since September. God damned bastard can’t keep it in his britches. I’m so sick of him. By the way, Sue is not exactly picky about her bed companions. You should get checked out for STDs and tell Ned to get tested too. Sue is just nasty. Oh, and for the record, Tom’s been promising her that he was going to marry her. I found the messages on his phone, and a receipt for an engagement ring in his pocket from Lucky’s Jewelers.”
She just about vomited up the Red Cat all over my nice kitchen table when she heard that story. She exploded, “That sorry son of a bitch! He’s been leading me on and stringing me along for a fucking year and all the while he’s been cheating on me?”
“Hey, hey, Marcia, don’t take it personally. I know exactly how you feel. He just uses women and tosses them away when he’s done with them. Well, except for me. I’m stuck with him. You aren’t the first and you won’t be his last. Trust me, he never has any intention to marry any of them, including you. More wine?” I offered with a Cheshire cat grin.
She held out her glass and I made sure it wasn’t half empty when I got done pouring. She was sobbing and slamming her little hands on the table. “Why? Why? Why? Why does this always happen to me? Why do men treat me like this? I don’t understand, I mean, I’m beautiful, I have great tits and I’m even a real blonde. It’s not fair!” She cried out, finally laying her head down on the table and drooling on her real blonde hair, as she passed out.
Wow. That was far too easy. Tired of being a human punching bag, I was getting my revenge. There would be hell for Tom to pay when this woman sobered up and found him. He deserved nothing less; I thought as I managed to drag and carry her to the sofa where I plopped her down and covered her with an Afghan my mom had knitted for us years ago.
I dug through my work satchel to retrieve the loaded handgun. Grabbing a damp, soapy paper towel, I scrubbed my prints off the weapon and held it with the towel as I tucked it carefully into her purse, making sure the safety was off.
I snapped off the lights, shut the door, and vamoosed before having to clean vomit off the sofa. Let Tom do that. I giggled most of the way back to the hotel. When did I turn so evil? Not that I cared. Just wondering.