"My mother was right – you're a goddamn whore!"
David's words cut Sandra to the quick. "Seven years of marriage," she thought, "and it's come down to this." Her auburn hair seemed more of a flaming red at the moment, a metaphor for her livid mood. She drew in an angry breath, abandoning her practice of counting to ten before saying something she'd later regret. "Well, you always were a mama's boy!" she spat vehemently, her voice rising a half-octave. "You stupid motherfucker!"
David stared at her, his eyes bulging and nostrils flaring. The veins in his neck swelled, seemingly pushing splotches of crimson upward to his cheeks. His balled-up fists spoke volumes about his inner fury. He prepared to launch a verbal barrage, but stopped before uttering a word. Instead, he turned on his heel and walked out of the room.
Sandra slumped to the floor, her head hunched over her knees, her arms covering her head. Her shoulders heaved with sobs. Tears spilled onto her shoes. Slowly, she curled into the fetal position as a low, guttural moan erupted from deep in her belly.
* * * * * *
Three months had passed since the big blow-up with his wife. David had left and had not returned – not even a phone call. He made sure to return for his clothes when Sandra was away, so that he would not have to face her.
David bunked at the apartment of his old buddy Matt for the first two and a half months after the shit storm. But even Matt grew tired of Dave's volatile and forlorn ways, finally asking him to leave a week and a half ago. Dave now lived at the local O'Malley's Inn, at least until he could figure out his next move.
First his mother was gone, then his marriage, then his best friend. Dave was beginning to worry about his job being next, despite the fact that he worked at one of his family's multitude of international businesses. He'd already been warned by his uncle about recent absenteeism and poor performance. He wondered whether maybe he should have listened to Sandra when she told him that he needed to seek professional help.
David still couldn't believe that he had stooped to calling Sandra a whore, much less leaving her with the impression that his recently deceased mother had thought that of her. Mom had passed away less than a year ago. Truth be told, Mom really liked Sandra, but early in his relationship with Sandra, his mother had been quite protective of her son. Mom had always wanted to be sure about the motives of David's love interests. The Ross family fortune was well known, and some of the girls Dave dated had dollar signs rather than stars in their eyes. Mom had wondered aloud in their early months of dating if Sandra was a "gold digger," and somehow in his warped state of mind, Dave had justified using the term "whore" on the basis of that marriage / sex for money connection.
"God," David thought, "I was such an ass. I shouldn't have dragged Mom into that argument. I can't believe I turned the tables on Sandra's worries about me, and made it all about her." But then she had spewed those "mama's boy" and "motherfucker" epithets at him, and it had pushed him over the edge. She – more than anybody – knew how much he'd been hurting since his mother's death, yet she couldn't have chosen a more hurtful retort. The words had been spitefully chosen, designed to draw blood. If ever in his life he was going to hit a woman, it would have been at that moment. Thankfully, he hadn't. But his state of mind had been spiraling downward ever since the argument – actually, ever since he got the phone call about his mother's death. He was a basket case.
David knew that he needed professional help. And yet he had a more basic need. More than three months without sex made a man even crazier.
Dave thought about his options, now that Sandra was out of his life. He didn't think about his lady (I know that sounds kind of mean). He thought that maybe he should consider Tara, who worked in sales at the family business where Dave worked. She had been flirting with him pretty consistently over the last couple of years. She had even taken to calling him "Love Puppy."
He always sloughed it off, but he had noticed her efforts intensifying since he had walked out on Sandra. Apparently his teetering marriage was part of the office rumor mill. Tara was an attractive green-eyed blonde, with a pretty face and bodacious figure. Maybe the Love Puppy should fuck the bitch that was in heat. But David remembered his father's advice from years ago. "Son," he had said, "when it comes to women, just remember – never shit where you eat."
David had understood the euphemism as it was intended – never mix business with pleasure. Besides, he saw many of the classic character flaws of a "gold digger" in Tara. She was status-obsessed, catty toward other women, laden with a strong sense of entitlement. So Tara was out.
There was always his trusty right hand as a back-up option, but it gave him no sense of intimacy. He needed someone to care about him while they did the deed together.
That sense of caring was what he missed most about his mother. Not that he sexualized his mother or ever thought about doing the deed with her; he simply knew that she loved him no matter what. He could always see it in her eyes.
He had seen the same look in Sandra's eyes when they were dating and throughout the early years of their marriage, but that look had seemingly disappeared in the months following Mom's death. It was replaced by a look of pity – something he couldn't bear. He supposed that was what had drawn such strength of wrath from him the fateful night of their last argument.
David had a momentary epiphany of another alternative. He got up from the couch at his little one-room suite at O'Malley's Inn. He loped down the staircase to the lobby and approached the front desk.
"Um, hi there," he said to the buxom brunette at the front desk. After seven years of marriage and the prior two dating Sandra, he had forgotten how this was done.
"May I help you, sir?" the beautiful desk clerk asked with a megawatt smile.
"Hi," he said again, "I'm Dave from 206."
She waited for more, but he offered nothing.
"Is there a problem with your room?" she queried, her smile diminishing.
"No – no problem. I was just wondering your name," he managed to sputter. "I'm here on an extended stay, and I thought it would be nice to get to know the people who work here."
"The name's Lindsay," she said, pointing to her name tag, trying hard not to roll her eyes. "It's nice to meet you, Mr., um..." Her fingers fumbled over the keyboard, struggling to find the last name of the guest in room 206.
"Ross. David Ross," he answered, extending his hand.
She returned his handshake. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Ross," she responded.
While grasping her right hand, David spied her left ring finger and saw that it was vacant. His own wedding ring had been in his pocket since the night he walked out on Sandra.
Dave looked into Sandra's cobalt blue eyes as he shook her hand, managing to keep his eyes averted from her perfectly rounded breasts. She had kind eyes, empathetic eyes. He needed someone to care. She looked like someone who might care. He decided to take the risk.
"I was wondering what time your shift is over tonight," he croaked, his voice reverting to an adolescent changeover squeak.
Lindsay let go of his hand.
"Listen, Mr. Ross," she returned softly but firmly, "I may be young, but I wasn't born yesterday. I can see the washed-out whiteness around your left ring finger. I'm not into married men."
"But I can explain," he uttered with a mixture of disappointment and rising anger. Matt had been right; he was too volatile and too forlorn. "My wife and I split up three months ago."
