An Epistolary Burn (750 Words)

Cassandra,

Something big came up and I headed over to Gina and Robbie's place for the night. I tried calling but I guess your phone was dead or something. From the look of things, I won't be back and will probably end up crashing on their couch for the night. Sorry about that.

You probably grabbed a takeout or something to eat at your desk, but just in case you haven't had something to eat, there's a plate in the fridge. Venison, creamy scalloped potatoes, and green beans. There's also more than half a bottle of pinot noir on the counter if you want something to go with it, or even just to wind down. The meat's well matured and very nice, but I know stuff's just not the same out of the microwave, so it'll probably be a bit rubbery, but it should be edible.

I wish you could have joined me for dinner tonight. There've been too many late nights at the office this year, and they've gotten a bit out of hand. I know. Business is business; there's no point in complaining about it; We're building a future; etc. I love you, and I understand, I just wish there were more hours in the day, you know?

Anyway, that should be enough. I know you don't read long notes and rarely get beyond the first paragraph or two before giving up. It's already crumpled in the trash now, with venison, potatoes, and beans on top. In fact, I give better than even odds that you don't remember I wrote anything after the thing about the plate and dig this note out of the garbage before it gets hauled away, and that's in six days time.

If I'm wrong, welcome back!

I said to be home early tonight, hell or high water, but I still got a message saying you're staying late. Thing is, today was our ninth anniversary and I'm done with the blatant disrespect. Something's been wrong for about eight months now, but salty kisses? Really? It's like you were daring me to leave you. There are two sorts of adult men in the world, Cassie: Those who have accidentally tasted their own jizz, and liars. Still, you didn't complain when I gave you nothing more than an occasional closed-mouth peck on the lips for the last four months, and I was never going to beg for sex, so if our dead bedroom didn't bother you, I figure you're either fully checked out of the relationship, or so wrapped up in the fog of your affair that you simply haven't noticed. Honestly, all my shit slowly vanishing from the house over the last week has been glaringly obvious to pretty much anyone with eyes in their head, but then you haven't really spent much time here recently, have you?

I stopped paying the bills after that kiss, and shit's about to get real. The mortgage is in default and they'll send notice about a trustee sale in a month or two. All the utilities are deep in the red. Car notes too. If you actually read this, ten grand should temporarily halt the tide. There's a couple of thousand left in the joint account, so that'll help. Otherwise, the electricity being cut should be a sign, as will someone hammering an 'auction' sign into the lawn soon after. We'll split any surplus the foreclosure auction makes, but you know that's not how it really works. I'd rather live under a bridge than be treated with contempt, but I figured if you could be selfish, I can too, so most of it's gone towards closing our joint cards, and the rest is either first and last on my new place or my lawyer's retainer.

They'll file soon. I've deactivated my socials and changed my number, and only my lawyer has my new address. You should get served in a couple of weeks or so, and that'll come with their contact details. They'll gladly pass on any communications you might want to make, but if you want to contact me before then, good luck and here's a hint: try a different state. They'll also be sending out a handful of letters to people who matter to me, but don't worry, I'm not going to sully your good name with wild allegations, just the reason for my departure along with concrete proof of your cruelty. You really should have read this note. Let's not meet again.

Loved you,

Rick.