"The fuckwad!"
Mollie stood beside the answering machine, her whole body trembling and her eyes burning as she struggled to keep her tears from spilling over her hot cheeks. She clenched her hands into fists and dug her manicured fingernails into her palm until pain shot through her. The sensation did not relieve any of the anger flooding through her body.
"The dick head!" she growled. How could he do this on Valentine's Day? Of all days to blow her off, he had to do it on Valentine's Day, the anniversary of the first time she had met him. Through three years of dating and six years of marriage, they had always marked Valentine's as a special day in their lives.
Their marriage had been good through four years and nine months. She still loved Bobby and was almost certain that he still loved her. However, for the last five months, things had not been as good. He had been spending more time at work. At first she had given his extra time at work to his promotion. Their income had increased and she knew his new responsibilities must take more time.
If it had been just more time at work, perhaps she would not have been concerned. Things had changed in all parts of their life, though. Conversations were thin and monosyllabic. Affection was nonexistent. She suspected that he was having an affair and until today it had not really bothered her.
But today, of all days, that secret knowledge infuriated her. She was still his wife. He still came home to her. They were still going to spend Valentine's Day, their day, together. Now things were different. She supposed it was ridiculous to think that Valentine's Day being sacred to them was nothing more than a silly, hopelessly romantic notion. It was a day for people who were in love, and though she still loved Bobby, she knew, though she could not admit it to herself, that they were no longer in love.
"Ass," she hissed at the phone, storming toward the bedroom. She kicked off her heels and reached around her back to unzip her dress. She caught a glimpse of herself in the full length mirror hanging on the back of her closet. She paused, allowing her eyes to sweep over her reflection.
The red dress was ridiculously short. When she bent forward, it hugged her round rear. Her legs were firm and sculpted. She put on the heels again and admired the way her stockinged thighs and calves extended from the hem of the skirt.
The bodice was a low cut "V" that revealed plenty of cleavage. She wore a bra that lifted her breasts and pushed them together. A diamond pendant he had given her on their fourth Valentine's hung against her breastbone. The shape of the charm directed the viewer's attention to the round, firm globes.
Her long, sandy brown hair flowed around her face. The edges curled against her cheeks and chin. Earrings that matched the pendant dangled from her lobes. Make-up expertly hid what few blemishes age had placed at the corners of her eyes and mouth. Her lips were full and matched the dress.
"Ass," she repeated, but this time the disgusted insult was directed toward herself. What had she hoped to rekindle by looking stunning tonight? Did she think she could knock him off his feet all over and make everything right again? Had she really thought a hot red dress, a nice dinner, and an intimate night in their bed would make them love each other again?
She reached to unzip the dress again, regretting the money she had spent and wondering if she could return it to the store for a refund. She continued studying her reflection, twisting and turning in front of the mirror. She wondered if Bobby would have appreciated the pains she had taken to look her best for him. "Fuck him," she spat, shaking her head with determination. She looked fabulous. She had spent money and time to look her best for her ungrateful husband. If he wasn't going to bother to come home and enjoy the view, she could still enjoy her ability to turn heads.
She pulled her wrap around her shoulders, picked up her small purse and car keys, and stormed to the garage. She slipped behind the wheel and gripped it in her hands, trying to decide where to go. She had intended to surprise Bobby with a meal at his favorite restaurant, a little Italian bistro on the other side of town. She didn't want to go to a restaurant where other couples would be celebrating the day of love. She didn't want to see couples who were happy and still in love. She didn't want to watch love blossoming. She didn't want to be reminded of what she had once had with Bobby.
She cranked the car and started driving, still struggling to hold her tears inside. They burned as she fought against the emotion welling inside her. She knew why she had chosen to ignore his affair. If she turned a blind eye to his cheating, then she could also ignore The Kiss.
That's the way she thought about it. It was The Kiss, with capital letters.
Jill Conner was Mollie's boss's boss. She wasn't in the local office very often, but the tall woman always made time to stop at Mollie's desk. Mollie had assumed it was professional courtesy and had dismissed the way her heart seemed to beat a little faster when she saw Conner milling about the office and the way she couldn't stop smiling whenever the woman would lean against her desk. Days seemed lighter when Conner was in town.
Three months ago, Conner had started spending more time at Mollie's desk. More often than not, their conversation had drifted away from trivial small talk and work details. Conner had eventually asked Mollie out for lunch, but Mollie had declined. She wanted to deny the good feelings Conner aroused in her. She was vaguely reminded of the way Bobby had made her feel when they were falling in love. She certainly didn't want to admit that Conner made her feel even better.
She had started avoiding Conner after the lunch invitation. When Conner would come into the office, Mollie would spend time filing, copying, or delivering mail. She would not be at her desk when Conner had free time. Two weeks ago, Conner had finally caught Mollie in the supply closet, her hands full of paper clips, empty folders, and staples. Conner had shut the door behind her, trapping Mollie in the narrow room. Mollie had stepped away, the shelves digging into her back as Conner had advanced.
"I'm not exactly sure what I did to make you hate me," Conner had stated in her matter-of-fact southern accent. "I would like the opportunity to apologize and make amends." Mollie's mouth moved wordlessly, so Conner continued. "I miss our little chats, Mollie Donavon. I'd like it very much if you stopped running from me."
Mollie avoided looking at Conner, staring at the floor and the supplies piled on the shelves. She avoided Conner's intense green eyes. She didn't think she could lie to Conner if she had to look into the tall woman's eyes. "I'm not running from you. I really don't know what you are talking about." Conner remained silent and unmoving. Excuse me," Mollie whispered. "I really need to get back to my desk."
Conner still did not budge. "If you are not running, then what are you doing now? Why can't you stand to be in the same room with me anymore?" Mollie continued to stare at the floor so Conner moved even closer. "Did I overstep a boundary when I invited you to lunch?"
