My Last Night with Jim

Jim seems to have everything he wants, but what about Jean? What do you do when you realize even the memories you have, might have been a fantasy all along?

My Last Night with Jim-

Only a year shy of fifty and greying at the temples, his face was beginning to show signs of aging. Even with crows’ feet, there was no denying that Jim was as handsome as he was in college. He was in sales, and he believed that the most important product he sold was himself. His wardrobe was expensive, as was his cologne. Jim took pride in looking successful and important. Most days he made more fuss about what I wore and how I looked than I did.

Yet, for all his experience, expertise, and fine lines, if he looked up to meet my gaze, his green eyes would shine with the same mischievous charm that made me blush and stammer in high school.

The two feet between us across the dining room table might as well have been a mile. Still, I watched him, willing him to meet my gaze. Finally, he raised those bedroom eyes to mine.

“What?”

I strained for something to say, something clever that would make him laugh or smile, anything but his usual cold dismissal. Instead, the cell phone by his elbow lit up, and my chance passed.

Without a word, he picked up the phone and pressed it to his ear as he pushed back from the table. With a glance and a shrug, he disappeared into the living room.

I began to clear the supper dishes, listening for any sign of who he might be speaking to.

He laughed softly, that low, chest-tightening laugh men reserve for attractive women.

The knots in my stomach became paroxysms of blinding pain, doubling me over and making me drop my plate in a red, wet mess of uneaten dinner on the tile. It had been a week since anyone called me. Not even Jim bothered. He was home whenever he came home, he disappeared whenever he felt like leaving, and I shrank smaller and smaller with each forgotten birthday, Valentine's Day, and anniversary.

Robotically, I cleaned up the spilled enchiladas and broken ceramic, then finished clearing the table and started the dishes. I ran hot soapy water and reflected on his coldness and my fear of being left all alone.

I’d confessed to my friend Sherry, just once, what it was like for me to wake up every day next to the man who was my everything, knowing I wasn’t the same for him.

“Do you know he’s cheating?” she’d asked, her lips pursed tight into a bright pink rosebud.

“Maybe. He travels a lot.”

“That’s it? Some women would kill for your life,” she snapped, shaking her new platinum bleach job behind her shoulder. “He slaves at his job and buys you anything you could want, but you just complain.”

I’d never mentioned it again.

The dishes slipped in my trembling fingers in the warm, sudsy dishwater and I thought about the jealousy and of the knots in my stomach when Jim stayed out all night. Then I thought about the man who hadn’t touched me in so long I’d long since stopped keeping track. I dried each sparkling clean dish and put them away.

I surveyed my beautiful, luxurious kitchen, shiny and clean from top to bottom as Jim moved out to the front porch. He sat on the other side of the glass on the porch swing, speaking in a low voice punctuated with that dark, sexy laugh.

Fuck it. I opened the door and stepped out into the cool, breezy twilight. “Jim, we need to talk.”

He scowled at me and pulled the phone away from his ear, muttering an irritated “Hold on a sec,” to his listener. On the other end of the line, there was a faint but recognizable voice.

Some women would kill for your life…

The air slammed out of my chest in a woosh.

“What, Jean? What do you want?” No low laughter or sexy masculinity in his voice for me.

“Never mind. I’m sorry.”

He glared at me until I went back inside.

I pulled my chef knife from the block, turned off the porch light, and walked back outside.

“What the fuck do you want?” Jim was angry now. He had deep wrinkles when he scowled and his eyes became tiny sparks in his whiskey-blushed face.

Why had I found him handsome?

Poor Jim. He’d gotten old when I was holding my breath, waiting for the man I loved to reappear… Had he always been this red, wrinkled person sitting in front of me, hoarding love and attention as it slipped through his fingers?

“Fucking hell. Go inside, you stupid woman.”

Oh.

My new eyes saw him in the half-dark of twilight more clearly than I had in years. On the other end of the phone, harsh, grating laughter made its tinny way to my new ears.

The knife slid between his ribs as easily as cutting the fresh flowers I always made sure to keep on the table. His scowl disappeared and he stared at me with horrified shock.

He didn’t say a word as the light went out in his eyes and his head slumped, turning that stare downward.

I cleaned the knife on my apron and went back inside to put it in the sink, running cold water over the fresh blood to keep it from staining. I fit the wide blade neatly into my purse and checked my hair in the mirror in the hall.

I wrapped my heartache around me and walked out the back door toward the alley, where I’d parked my car.

I drove into the night.

Sherry only lived a few minutes away…