A Typical Ending

Just a flash story

...

Shit.

You know it's coming.

You can read the signs. The unexplained times away, the evasions, getting caught in small lies and telling bigger ones to cover them up. Moods swinging from unbridled lust to don't you dare touch me to total indifference.

I tried to talk about it. Tried reasoning, tried threats. You do it until one day you wake up and think, "The bitch is cheating on me, but I don't give a fuck anymore."

So you plan your own exit strategy. Move the money around, thanking whatever force in the universe that you hadn't got around to the children stage. Think about pain, public humiliation, physical violence. Think about just disappearing, then abandon the idea because if she's fucking around on you, it wouldn't matter to her in the least.

So you become moody, withdrawn, letting her rants and disrespect roll off you because you just plain don't give a shit anymore, watching with amusement as she realizes that if you don't already know you suspect. Revel in the way she tries to do damage control, gets upset when she comes home from an intimate interlude with her lover and find you're not home, anxiously awaiting her return, and the shock on her face when you say no to sex with her, then fucking her like a cheap whore when she least suspects it.

Then comes the implosion and the aftermath.

...

It was a neighborhood party, summertime, the guys in shorts, the gals in sundresses, mostly, scattered among some really short shorts and low cut tops. You drink, flirt, bullshit, comfortable in your surroundings, because you know it's harmless. Then you begin to notice things. Eye contact between them, quick stares, avoiding each other, then closing for some intense conversation. Now you know which one of your friends is stabbing you in the back. You'd feel sorry for the wife if she wasn't such a stuck up bitch. They all deserve each other.

You get drafted to help man the grill, because everybody in the group knows you're the best cook there, including the women. It's a perfect position to watch.

He disappears. Five minutes later so does she. You look around for someone to pass the grilling duties off to when God gives you a gift and the grill dies, the propane tank completely empty.

"Dude, you're out of propane," I tell our host, one of the few people I actually like.

"Thought it might run out," he says, as his wife of nine years wiggles around on his lap, happily buzzed, "got another down in the basement. I'll get it."

You laugh and tell him he looks a little busy while the rest of the crowd grins, and go to get it yourself, deciding to look for the star crossed lovers. You find them, in of all places, in the basement.

He's standing in the doorway to the pantry, shorts around his ankles, gripping the door jamb for support. You can't actually see the woman on her knees, but there was only one woman there with a pink top and white shorts.

You flash hot, flash cold, then look down in your hand, noticing the grilling fork you had idly carried downstairs. He stops encouraging the woman with praise of what a good cocksucker she's become, to look at the silver shaft quivering, the two prongs through his hand, pinning it to the jamb. Before he could scream or warn the woman, you step back and kick him, aiming for his balls. You partially succeed, and hear the woman gag as a hard cock is unexpectedly jammed all the way down her throat. The man would collapse, but his pinned hand seems to be holding him up.

Smirking, you come back upstairs, telling a neighbor who also happens to be a registered nurse, that she might need to go down to the basement, it looks like there might have been an accident. You give her some parting words for the lovers.

"Tell her there's nothing left to come home to, but come anyway if she has the nerve. Tell him if the cops come around, next time it'll be a lot worse than a punctured hand."

The group thundered down the stairs, to see him holding his hand, trying to stop the bleeding, shorts still around his ankles. She's on the floor gagging, boobs still hanging out of her shirt.

...

Then, of course, there's the aftermath. Couples split up, a couple of people are asked not to come to anymore parties. Houses go up for sale because no one can afford them alone.

The neighbors shake their head, secure in the knowledge that it could never happen to them, until months or years down the road it does.

Surprised you're not more bitter, you realize you had time to mentally prepare for it, unlike the spouse, who gets it thrust upon her suddenly. There's tears, begging, counseling, but the divorce goes through. Neither can afford to leave town, so you see each other once in a while. She wants to talk but you just ignore her and walk on. Seems you have more important things to think about.

Life goes on.

...

Well, it seems I'm back. More to come, soon. Thanks for reading. Vote if you want, comment if you feel like it.

Q