This story is a submission to the sixth Friendly Anonymous Writing Challenge (FAWC) and a tribute to the founder of FAWC, slyc_willie, who we lost unexpectedly in October 2015. The true author of this story is kept anonymous until the end of the competition. Authors base their story on a list of four items. Their choices included the following letters: S L Y C. Each item was used in the story. There are no prizes given in this challenge; this is simply a friendly competition.
The list for this story includes: Lecturer, Licorice, Laundry room, Lech
* * * *
It was so clichéd, I'm embarrassed to even mention it.
I wonder how many other spouses, all across the country, are having their lives destroyed every evening by the callous, vicious, cruelty of the ones they've committed their lives to.
How do they respond, when out of the blue, with no warning, and absolute zero consideration from their significant other, they hear the words, "I'm leaving."
How do they feel, to know their entire life has been a sham, their future plans have just been obliterated, and they are back at square one?
I sat in shock, my mind stalled, unable to respond. The words were like an evil virus that short-circuited any semblance of thought. I felt like I'd been punched in the solar plexus, unable to breathe, as the impact left me helpless.
"I know you'll agree that things between us haven't been good lately. I'm tired of being nothing but a trophy wife, a bauble you own. I need a change, and I know you do too. I'm sure you'll realize that once you've had time to think about it."
Finally, the gray matter sputtered and restarted. My heart shuddered and started weakly beating. The breath that had been trapped in my chest escaped with a whistling rush, past my paralytic vocal chords. "Leaving?" I squeaked, like a teenage adolescent passing through puberty.
I'll readily admit it could have been worse; it could be the hackneyed bubble-gum chewing process server dropping the manila envelope in your hand and telling you that you've been served. Yes, I can only imagine how horrible that would be. But in the stories, the spouse getting served usually deserves it. For the life of me, I couldn't think of anything I'd done wrong.
Or perhaps the family lecture, where everyone knows but you, spouse and children gathered around the table, laying out the new rules they've adopted, for a game you never agreed to. That would be pretty terrible. Luckily we had no children, and the idea of my wife as the lecturer was ludicrous. I loved the woman, but she wasn't much for oratorical feats. I had to wonder who'd been doing the coaching for her to put together that initial devastating salvo.
Worse yet, it could have been the cheater's ambush, where they bring their partner in adultery with them, nominally for support, but in actuality their purpose is to ridicule and humiliate you, so that you roll over without a fight. They cut your knees out from under you, gut you, stab you in the heart and the back at the same time, leaving you bleeding, dying in the home you'd created together, your sanctuary, now a crime scene. I can't imagine much worse.
I'd only been in the door a minute or so, wondering why her Lexus was in the driveway. She never drove the Lexus, not since I gave her the Beemer for her birthday. I barely had time to even sit down, when I saw her coming out of the back with a suitcase in her hand. She delivered her initial salvo, with the impact of a cannonball at close range. While I struggled to comprehend what had just happened, she had placed her suitcase by the door. I had just noticed there were three of them, and a hang-up bag, when her mouth opened and her secondary fusillade tore me apart.
I knew things weren't good? I knew nothing of the kind! I thought things were great, to be honest. And trophy wife? Where did that come from? It didn't make sense. None of it made sense.
"We'll talk later," she said, standing in front of me, her simple words sniper shots picking me off, every time I tried to recover.
I struggled to form a sentence, create coherency from my jumbled thoughts. All that escaped my lips, past the desolate dry wasteland that was now my mouth, was a single word, wrought with feeling.
"Elizabeth?"
"Sorry to spring it on you like this, Willie, but something came up. I'll be gone for two weeks. I'll tell you how things are going to be when I get back."
She'd tell me? Gone? Two weeks?
The door opened, and he walked into my house like he owned it. Taller, younger, fitter. Of course. It was my tortured destiny. He gave me a grin and a little wave, turned at the door, picked up the smallest suitcase and tucked it under his arm, then lifted the other two by the handle. "This is it, baby? Just these three?"
She turned to him and smiled, nodding. "That's all, Randy. I'll be out in a second."
She turned to me, her face taking on an exasperated expression as if somehow I was making this difficult, causing her trouble. "You'll be fine, Willie. You'll see. Things will be better, I promise." Then she leaned over and gave me a fucking kiss on the cheek!
My wife of five years turned and left. That was the end. Simple enough, I guess. I had no say in the matter, no input, nothing.
* * * *
I was wandering through the house. You wouldn't know she was gone. Her spoor was everywhere, little signs of where she'd been. Her long blonde hairs on the back of the seat cushions, a third of her purse still scattered across her dresser, where she'd swapped purses before leaving. Makeup, tissues, paper receipts, her miscellaneous daily detritus covered half the surface. Her side of the bathroom was its usual explosion of her war paint, camouflage, and artist tools.
Her energy bars were on the kitchen counter, yoga mat by the door, keys with that stupid Winnie the Pooh keychain still hanging up in the hall. I turned on the TV and the Lifetime Channel came on.
It was a mistake. She wasn't gone. I must have misunderstood. Maybe it was a work emergency. She didn't say what I thought she did. She couldn't have. We were happy. Discussing where to go on our summer vacation just a couple of weeks ago. We'd made love on Saturday after going out to eat. There was the grocery list, on the refrigerator.
I went to bed, setting both of our alarms. Woke up and looked for her beside me. Made the bed and neatened the room, for when she came home. I cooked breakfast for two, before going to work at the usual time, and called her phone to let her know what time I'd be home. No answer, but she often didn't answer. She was busy, that was it, so I left a message. I looked for her once I arrived home, checked to see if her clothing was back, if she was back. I made us dinner and wrapped her plate in saran wrap for later. I stayed up later than usual; I didn't want to miss her when she returned.
The following day I stuck to my schedule. I drove her car to work, still imbued with her smell. A reminder that she wasn't really gone. She couldn't be. Her oil change was overdue, so I took it to work and had the guys in the garage give it a full checkout and detail it.
Elizabeth was a beautiful woman. I was reminded of it every time I entered the building, looking at her likeness beaming down at me from our billboard. She was the face of the business. Such a pretty face.
I was working on autopilot but still went through the motions. I inspected the three latest vehicles and approved the repairs and upgrades before putting them in the warehouse. I confirmed the prices and read the advertising before they would go up on our website and Craigslist. The Lexus had 97,000 miles and was in perfect shape. We'd bite the bullet and put it on eBay cars.
Mine was a small business, actually a dual business. On the left side of the warehouse, we purchased high-end cars at auction, refurbished and resold them. Usually higher mileage vehicles which we could pick up dirt cheap and turn over quickly, often financing ourselves after a down payment that covered our expenses. Amy worked the desk and handled all the computer stuff. Ralph and Jimmy worked sales on commission. The three guys in the garage performed our maintenance, detailing, and car repairs. For paint and major bodywork, we contracted out the work. Javier could do interiors, and all three could do basic auto repair.
For the most part, it was all about appearances. We worked over the car inside and out and made it look gorgeous. Spent a little more than our competitors, upgrading sound and navigation systems, reupholstering when necessary, fixing chrome and dings, cleaning the engine, that kind of stuff. It paid off. We were growing, and profitable.
On the other side of the warehouse were the HP LX800 Printer and the wrap and tint bays. I attend a lot of car auctions, and one day while inspecting a small fleet of business vehicles, I found the $200,000 printer and managed to pick it up, including a ton of HP latex inks and wrap material, for less than 40 grand. It was chancy, but that was the start of our Car Wrap business. It had turned into a good steady income stream and I was cross training the garage guys to be able to do wraps. For the moment, I just had Linda and Dave. They both worked part-time initially and were paid by the piece. It had turned into a full-time job for both of them after less than a year. Dave did the designs, and Linda did the install. She added the window tinting options with my permission. With her skills, applying the film was a piece of cake and she had Javier doing it within a week. Now, virtually all of our used vehicles went out with tinted windows.
I was updated on the latest, peeking into the two occupied bays, where we were doing wraps for some landscaping business. At $3000 apiece for a full wrap, they must be doing okay. Then again, car wraps are a pretty good investment. In a busy area, with a commercial vehicle, you can generate 30,000 to 70,000 views per day. That's a lot of free advertising after the initial investment. And it works. I know because my business truck was wrapped and we got calls off it.
As the day ended, I knew I was getting some odd looks from the people in the office, but honestly, I didn't care. I just needed to get through the day. Elizabeth would probably be home.
* * * *
I turned off my alarm and rolled out of bed. The other side was still empty. Three nights empty. I was tired, sleeping was becoming difficult. I made my way to the shower, and stood under the water, trying to wake up. I had barely stepped out when her alarm went off.
It beeped and beeped, and beeped. I'd always hated her alarm. I woke to radio, letting the words slowly seep into my unconscious, dragging me back to reality. Her alarm was an ice pick to the brain. On, and on, and on, and on ...
I marched into the bedroom, grabbed that damn radio, tore it out of the wall, and threw it into her closet. Fucking oversized closet, as big as a small bedroom, full of her crap. Bitch. Tens of thousands of dollars of her shit in there. I'd paid for all of them. And she left. Ungrateful slut!
I snapped, and when I was somewhat cogent, I could see I'd destroyed her closet, dresser, and half the bathroom. Her half. I was gasping for air, my hands and arms were bleeding, the fury barely contained.
"God damn bitch! She'll tell me how things will be? The whore runs off with her fuck buddy, and she's gonna tell me how I'm supposed to handle it? Well, fuck her!"
I tore through the house, taking anything of hers and shoving it into industrial garbage bags, depositing each full one in the garage. Pictures she'd chosen, knickknacks she'd bought, hell, even the food that she ate, it went into the bags until I'd erased her from my home.
