Flash Fiction by Beth Bovard
I sighed as I shut the door behind him, leaning against it in my robe. The scent of him clung to my skin and I was delaying a shower because of it. I set the coffee maker to brew while I thought about what I was doing. I had left the man I loved. A decade of holding Aiden on a pedestal of pure adoration was all dashed to the floor in a final week of fighting, flinging deadly shards to the farthest corners of my life. A year later I am sleeping with him again. I lit a cigarette and breathed in the toxic smoke of punishment.
I thought I was strong. I thought that by standing up and saying “No, that’s a marriage-breaker right there,” when the verbal abuse got out of hand was the mark of a brave woman. More likely, it was merely Mother Nature switching on the protective instincts of the animal parent. I remembered the day he told my son he was going to kill me, spitting his rage at us as he paced in the driveway. My child’s face was an oh of shock and fear, his eyes wide as he clutched his toy dinosaur. My backbone shot up straight to my mouth. “What the hell are you doing, frightening our son and acting like a madman? When you cool off, you can give me a call and we can talk about the divorce.” I put my son in the car, shaking with the knowledge that Aiden could grab me and strangle me any second. That was the last day I was his wife.
Leaving him was the right thing to do. So why the hell was I still taking his calls and inviting him over for crazy monkey sex? I took another deep drag of my cigarette in self-flagellation. I loved our clandestine meetings in the bedroom. It was the first year of our marriage all over again, where he treated me like I was the fuel of his fire, and he couldn’t get enough. We were perfect soul mates, for about an hour. Afterward, he would return to his new girlfriend, and I would text my new boyfriend that I wanted to go to the movies tonight.
I poured my coffee and lit a new cigarette with the butt of the depleted one. My phone rang and I answered, “hey lady.”
“Hey chickie,” said my best friend Amy. “Want to catch a movie tonight? I need to wear these new boots somewhere.”
“Thanks, but no. I asked Rick to the movies already, and I know you don’t like him or I’d ask you to join us.
“Ugh no. I hope you get finished with that rebound soon. He’s totally not for you.” A moment of silence.
“Wait, you had company again, today didn’t you?” Her accusation was sharp.
I slurped my coffee and put my cigarette in the ashtray. I sighed. “Yes, Aiden just left.”
“That guy says horrible things that make you a basket-case for a week, so why can’t we just find you a good lover- better than Rick, obviously, and you can just block Aiden’s number?” The pleading whine in her voice was a tickle in my Better Judgment.
“I think I’m an addict, ” I said as I picked up my cigarette again.
“Then let me be your Relationships Anonymous sponsor so I can tell you that it’s all about the ‘normal’ feeling you’re missing right now. Aiden’s verbal abuse and mad bedroom skills were ‘normal’ for you for the past twelve years. You are just afraid to give it up and move on. What you are really afraid of is change.”
I sat down on a kitchen chair, hard. My son’s toy dinosaur laid on it’s side on the kitchen table, awaiting his return from school. The hard plastic had weathered his love well, the faded painted stripes the only sign of age since it’s purchase in the museum gift shop, years ago. The toy went out of focus as the realization hit me that my addiction was really unhealthy and needs to stop, now. I am a poor example for my son, the one I wrenched my life apart to protect. I must have stopped breathing because Amy’s voice turned frantic.
“Hey honey, it’s okay, I didn’t mean to lambast you, please tell me you’re okay!”
I put out my cigarette. “I think I want to move to California and get a new phone number.”
The relief in her laughter clicked with something in my gut and I knew my bad habit was about to end.
“Hold on, I’m texting Rick that I changed my mind about tonight.”
21 Apr 2017
Relationships Anonymous
Flash Fiction by Beth Bovard
I sighed as I shut the door behind him, leaning against it in my robe. The scent of him clung to my skin and I was delaying a shower because of it. I set the coffee maker to brew while I thought about what I was doing. I had left the man I loved. A decade of holding Aiden on a pedestal of pure adoration was all dashed to the floor in a final week of fighting, flinging deadly shards to the farthest corners of my life. A year later I am sleeping with him again. I lit a cigarette and breathed in the toxic smoke of punishment.
I thought I was strong. I thought that by standing up and saying “No, that’s a marriage-breaker right there,” when the verbal abuse got out of hand was the mark of a brave woman. More likely, it was merely Mother Nature switching on the protective instincts of the animal parent. I remembered the day he told my son he was going to kill me, spitting his rage at us as he paced in the driveway. My child’s face was an oh of shock and fear, his eyes wide as he clutched his toy dinosaur. My backbone shot up straight to my mouth. “What the hell are you doing, frightening our son and acting like a madman? When you cool off, you can give me a call and we can talk about the divorce.” I put my son in the car, shaking with the knowledge that Aiden could grab me and strangle me any second. That was the last day I was his wife.
Leaving him was the right thing to do. So why the hell was I still taking his calls and inviting him over for crazy monkey sex? I took another deep drag of my cigarette in self-flagellation. I loved our clandestine meetings in the bedroom. It was the first year of our marriage all over again, where he treated me like I was the fuel of his fire, and he couldn’t get enough. We were perfect soul mates, for about an hour. Afterward, he would return to his new girlfriend, and I would text my new boyfriend that I wanted to go to the movies tonight.
I poured my coffee and lit a new cigarette with the butt of the depleted one. My phone rang and I answered, “hey lady.”
“Hey chickie,” said my best friend Amy. “Want to catch a movie tonight? I need to wear these new boots somewhere.”
“Thanks, but no. I asked Rick to the movies already, and I know you don’t like him or I’d ask you to join us.
“Ugh no. I hope you get finished with that rebound soon. He’s totally not for you.” A moment of silence.
“Wait, you had company again, today didn’t you?” Her accusation was sharp.
I slurped my coffee and put my cigarette in the ashtray. I sighed. “Yes, Aiden just left.”
“That guy says horrible things that make you a basket-case for a week, so why can’t we just find you a good lover- better than Rick, obviously, and you can just block Aiden’s number?” The pleading whine in her voice was a tickle in my Better Judgment.
“I think I’m an addict, ” I said as I picked up my cigarette again.
“Then let me be your Relationships Anonymous sponsor so I can tell you that it’s all about the ‘normal’ feeling you’re missing right now. Aiden’s verbal abuse and mad bedroom skills were ‘normal’ for you for the past twelve years. You are just afraid to give it up and move on. What you are really afraid of is change.”
I sat down on a kitchen chair, hard. My son’s toy dinosaur laid on it’s side on the kitchen table, awaiting his return from school. The hard plastic had weathered his love well, the faded painted stripes the only sign of age since it’s purchase in the museum gift shop, years ago. The toy went out of focus as the realization hit me that my addiction was really unhealthy and needs to stop, now. I am a poor example for my son, the one I wrenched my life apart to protect. I must have stopped breathing because Amy’s voice turned frantic.
“Hey honey, it’s okay, I didn’t mean to lambast you, please tell me you’re okay!”
I put out my cigarette. “I think I want to move to California and get a new phone number.”
The relief in her laughter clicked with something in my gut and I knew my bad habit was about to end.
“Hold on, I’m texting Rick that I changed my mind about tonight.”
by Beth in Flash Fiction Tags: flash fiction, grief, short fiction