Ashes of Pyrrhus

The words were still echoing in my head…

I’m having an affair. I don’t love you anymore.

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

I was drunk, I was naked, and I was curled up with my husband’s best friend. I’m good in bed, a complicated ellipsis that my “husband” must have forgotten to factor into his equation. He’d bragged about it for years to all his friends, so why not go out with a bang?

I smiled, and drew him back down on the bed, feeling his muscles, trailing kisses towards a very sensitive area.

“Oh, yessss,” I purred.

I’m having an affair. I don’t love you anymore.

Fine, “hubby.” Then I will too.

My “husband’s” job had sent him overseas. He’d booked two tickets. He’d be gone a week.

I found the tickets, and the fight had been explosive. He should have known, the minute he said those words, I would go cold.

I’m having an affair. I don’t love you anymore.

No problem, “dear.” I have a week to ruin your life.

Even as I pleasured his bestie, I cast an eye out the window, at the bonfire in the back yard. It was a dry season, but we weren’t in drought watch yet. I’d informed the fire company that I’d be having large fires in the back yard all week. If I squinted, I could see the remnants of the first empty bottle of wine. I was raiding his carefully curated wine cellar. At $550 a bottle, it should have tasted better.

His bestie had always made curious comments when my “husband” boasted of my bed skills. I’d always demurred, like a good little wifey.

I’m having an affair. I don’t love you anymore.

Well, game on. Among other things on me…

I wondered idly what my husband’s brother was doing.

It didn’t take me long to find out, his brother was better in bed than his bestie.

I took him on the same bed. No, I didn’t clean the sheets. Last night’s stains mixed with last week’s, which mixed with others that shouldn’t be there. It was fair play, to my mind.

I’m having an affair. I don’t love you anymore.

The second bonfire lasted longer than the first. First night was all his clothing, save for a few special pieces. I’d save those for last.

Earlier, I’d moved all the money out of our shared accounts. I’d also moved the money he’d been keeping in secret accounts, through means that aren’t terribly legal. I no longer care. By the time he’d return, it would all be beyond his reach.

I sold his fish to his bitter “aquarium rival.” Who thinks up these things?

I almost fed them to his cat, but that would be cruel. Instead, I packed up the cat, her toys, cat tree, and treats, and returned the kitty to its original owner. He’d stolen her as a kitten from a business associate’s daughter after a rowdy corporate party at the guy’s house. I remember that party well, because “husband” had been bragging about me there, and I was in a red dress with a thigh slit. Nice house, nice owner, he’d only ogled me that night, appreciating me from afar. Today, I owed him and his daughter a rather large apology – and paid him in kind. I left him breathless with my apology. His daughter was ecstatic to get her cat back.

Funny, that my “husband” only appreciated what he could steal.

I’m having an affair. I don’t love you anymore.

The next day, I hired two very strong, very muscular guys, and they moved out all the irrelevant furniture. My mother-in-law is a harpy, but she has an eye for a good antique. Most of it was family heirloom quality. Not a problem, it would be delivered to a homeless shelter I knew about, halfway across the country. They would sell it all, and the proceeds would go directly to the homeless community, and maintaining their soup kitchen.

I burnt most of my stuff, too. Who wants that kind of crap? Things that remind me of him? Dating gifts, love notes, trip souvenirs. Outfits he loved, that I bought to please him. I kept a few out, because I might need them in the next few days.

I’m having an affair. I don’t love you anymore.

Apparently word got around.

By the next day, all of “husband’s” so-called “friends” had arrived, asking for their turn with me. Like they were owed it, or something. Well. If I didn’t have the “ick” before, I had it now!

I set up the bonfire as usual, and they helped by throwing everything they could reach onto it. Luckily I’d already put my personal items, electronics, and other stuff into a storage unit, because they were reduced to shredding the mattress and stained bed sheets to fuel it. Then my wedding dress. Then his Armani wedding suit. Then they began ripping out pieces of drywall, and feeding that to the fire.

And then they found the wine cellar.

Where the roofies came from, I have no idea, but I got out of there fast. This was a scene about to become a train wreck, and I would become the main course if I didn’t leave fast.

I heard, later, that they fought both the firefighters, and the police, when they were called. The bestie was wearing my red dress – what was left of it, after he jammed it on – and his brother was wearing another dress of mine, and they were going at it like rabbits while the house burned. A bunch of his old college buddies fought the firefighters trying to save the house, and the police arrested the lot of them. Massive drunken disorderly on the whole bunch; they deserve it.

Insurance won’t pay for a rebuild, since it was intentional.

Me? I left town. There’s no way I was sticking around for my “husband” to get back early and find me within reach. I had a security system set up, inside and out. The police got the video, but I got screenshots, and I mailed packets of incriminating evidence to everyone. His awful mother, his sainted religious grandmother. His boss. His friends’ wives and girlfriends. Not the business associate. His daughter deserves her cat in a safe home.

My “husband” will come home to a pile of rubble, no job, and no friends.

Me? I want a new life. The open road, and no cheating husband. No backbiting friends. His friends, really. I wasn’t allowed to have any. That would have taken time and attention away from himself.

I just want to live my life!

But, here I sit, because you won’t let me leave. Why, Doctor? I keep telling you this same story, over and over, and you keep saying that it didn’t happen this way. You keep saying that I don’t mention the blood, or the knife. There were no knives, they were packed away in the truck. Sold to help the homeless. Of course you can’t find them, that was the whole point, I wasn’t going to let my “husband” have anything of our old life.

Especially his wine. Is that where you’re getting the “all the blood” monotony? Test it, you’ll see. Probably spilled wine from the orgy.

Talk to the police. Talk to everyone I sent packets of proof to.

I’m having an affair. I don’t love you anymore.

Talk to my stupid “husband!” I wish I had been able to be there, when he saw his world crash down! I would have gotten a video I could treasure for years!

I’m having an affair. I don’t love you anymore.

What do you mean he’s dead? Nonsense! He was overseas with his side piece!

I’m having an affair. I don’t love you anymore.

Dead for days by the time the firefighters came? Nonsense! One of us would have found him – the movers, his bestie, his brother. I left when they started ripping the walls down…

I’m having an affair. I don’t love you anymore.

What do you mean, “under the mattress?”

I think you’re lying. I think his “friends” did something, and are blaming me, because otherwise their lives blow up too. Check the video!

I think I am done talking to you, "Doctor." You’re keeping me here because I know the truth, and you’re not even looking at the evidence. Go away, and don’t bother coming back until you’re willing to listen to me.

I’m having an affair. I don’t love you anymore.

I’m having an affair. I don’t love you anymore.

I’m having an affair. I don’t love you anymore….