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 clichΓ©d, 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.