Author's Notes: There is very much thinking, remembering, and action in this reconciliation story rewrite. I continue to use multi-syllable words. It's vintage c1992w of what I like to write about as I continue to learn Wordsmithing. Found here are zero hot sex, my own POV, and my typing errors. Thanks for reading my stuff and all cogent feedback (especially the few who 'favor' a story) appreciated (I am sorry, Anons, I just scan them because I have a day job and only have 24 hours in my day.)
Requiem For A Fallen Wife Redux
"/All the sad young [women], choking on their youth
Trying to be brave, running from the truth/."
(Lyrics From 'Ballad of the Sad Young Men')
In the fall of 2014 Leann Porter was a depressed accounting section chief for the Proprietary Trading Department - the unit had already been scheduled to be closed in the next year (by an act of Congress). She sat in her office on the sixteenth floor of the regional headquarters building of one of the accursed 'too-big-to-fail' national banks. The fit and petite CPA, 'number-ten' beauty, who was 31-Years-old, had won promotion to this position in 2005.
At that time, a Mover-and-Shaker bank executive, Mark Thompson, who boasted openly about 'friends in Washington,' had taken an interest in the experienced accountant who had top credentials. What Mark needed was a section chief who could be trained to obfuscate the difference between bank funds and depositor funds when Examiners visited visa vie Proprietary Trading. Mark had thought, "Leann is what I need because she has sufficient savvy to take guidance learning my esoteric accounting techniques, she can teach her staff, and the genius will keep her mouth shut. On top of that, she oozes sex and will be riding my cock in a short while if I haven't misjudged her." He had approached Leann about working for him: "I will write the position description as Accounting Head of Proprietary Trading only you can qualify." Thompson had used language just short of 'sexual harassment,' intimating that she COULD become the new accounting head in his department if she spread her legs. Leann was mesmerized with the two-tier pay grade increase plus working for a high profile person like Mark.
Thompson later said to a group at a company social meet while looking directly at Leann, "My section Chiefs often accompany me to the home office, Washington, and to other events. The only complaint I get is that those poor mid-managers must pack dressy clothes for each trip in addition to their work clothes." Almost as if the Playboy could read her mind at the time, it happened that Leann was, in fact, frustrated with her marriage in 2002 to her husband, John Porter. She became his accounting chief in '05 and they became secret lovers shortly after that.
Today in 2014 marked a month since the depressed Leann Porter - who had kept her first husband's name - had served a divorce petition to Mark Thompson, her second husband of nine years. The Christmas season had begun. She had been sitting in her office turned around and faced the city. Depressed, she asked herself, "Why is my life in the shitter? It didn't help that I walked in on my prize catch Husband, while he and his NYC ballerina 'discovery' were in our Beacon Hill home, naked and enjoyed each other's body in our MBR. Both ignored me. - ME! the woman of the house. They didn't even pause in midstroke at my interruption. I then closed their bedroom door and sat down to wait in our sitting room while attempting to control my emotions and consider options open to me.
"Try as I might, even though I was married to the deep-pocket Randy in the next room, anger at two was just not possible as I listen to them scream like sex-crazed pigs copulating. Inexplicably, I felt relief, and said out loud to nobody, 'This is an opportunity for my son and me to move on even if it means living in the poor house.'"
Looking down at the city today, like always when her emotions were raging, she thought back to her first husband, John Porter, whom she married in 2002. She could still see the computer Hack's face radiating pure joy when she had told him in 2005, "We are going to have a baby." She also vividly remembered the reflection of hell fire on the broken man's face after viewing the Paternity Test results of their newborn son, Greg Porter. She mused, "No matter how I try to find peace and a purpose in life, the reality is that there is none for me because I can not forget John Porter and move on."
Her thoughts, returning to the day she saw her husband fucking the ballerina, were, "The Ballerina finally left our home without apologizing or even acknowledging me. Then later my husband, dressed in his pin-striped suit, came into the sitting room and approached me pulling a suitcase behind him. He indifferently said, "I grew tired of pleading for an open marriage, Leann, and this is the result. Do what you will, Lady. I will return in two days."
Three days afterward Mark Thompson had been served with a divorce petition. On that day Leann continued to sit in her office looking out the 16th-floor window eating her soup and salad lunch. She mused to herself, "Today I live in limbo, soon to be divorced from a Primate who wears suits and has Washington influence because of his family connections. But, I don't even think about him. I can not take my mind off my first husband. What is wrong with this picture, Leann? You are fucked up, for sure, but surely are smart enough to solve this problem!"
As she sat working later, Leann's thoughts returned to her current husband. She grimaced in self-loathing, as she recalled, all the glitz Thompson had made possible for her. She reminisced: "I had mastered PC talk amongst the people who count, learned to laugh appropriately at their trite jokes, adjusted the bias in my points of view to coincide with Toads, and had become accustomed to very expensive food and liquor. Then there were the skiing junkets in the Andes when I hated snow but learned to tolerate it, just like the avant-garde gala performances at the Met and the D.C. Performing Arts Center were tortuous, but I adjusted. I can also remember many times when my high-roller husband lay sexually spent beside me these past nine years while I had to diddle myself afterward for relief. It has been and remains impossible to live without self-hatred. Why live, Leann? Why not end it all because if you do your son will find himself 21 someday with a silver spoon in his mouth residing in Beacon Hill."
She brought herself to full awareness with a jerk and sat up in her chair. She continued her silent soliloquy and said, "You must stop thinking like that, Leann! Yes, of course, 'they say,' 'I am a mother and must take care of my son.' But, is that the answer to WHY LIVE? Moreover, what if my precocious offspring grows up to be brilliant but muddled just like both his Mom and sperm-donor? The thought frightens me. How do I break that vicious cycle so that clear, lucid thinking - the way John Porter practiced it, in point of fact - rather than feelings, will drive Greg's choices as a way of life? Is there anything I can do to prevent my son from growing up in our 'me too' society as a confused peer-pressure survivor victim just like his bio-father and me?"
Leann had graduated cum laud from a celebrated accounting school for women in the Eastern Baystate in 2001 and days later sat for and passed her certification exams. Many blue-chip institutions competed for her services, but the 19-year-old chose one of the large banks and began her stellar career rise in commercial loan accounting. Convinced she was the smartest person in the world, her hubris allowed her to seem to know even when discussing topics unknown to her. The 'Number 10' beauty was so highly sought after socially and romantically by the viral young studs in the building until once she briefly had been plagued by a coworker who became a stalker before he was asked to resign.
The one important lesson her Mom had taught Leann by example - which Leann retained only for a short while - was, "Never date men in the office." But, because of the availability of hunks in her building, however, saying 'no' was an increasing struggle for the sought after number ten woman from the first day on her new job.
At near the start of her career, the beauty was a workaholic doing accounting grunt work. At monthly and quarterly book closings, she worked long, long hours without complaints or extra pay and always took short breaks. What had brought Leann to the attention of senior management in time was that she could grasp complexities at once where others required studying project planning software to understand. She looked at the men she encountered in her working teams she lead and shook her head as a give- up-it's-hopeless gesture. She often rubbed her temples when physically exhausted and paused to take stock of herself and where she was on her career path. There was one top floor bank executive, Mark Thompson, however, who would come by like clockwork and chat. He typically did this after all her team members had left the small conference room and clocked out, while she remained alone to plan tomorrow's tasks. In time, it dawned on the 20-year-old accountant, "He is only interested in pussy. Shit!"
Afterward, Thompson would finally leave, and Leann would gather up her notes and stuff them in her laptop case and sign out of her workstation. It was times like these that the muddled accountant remembered John Porter, who had struck a chord when they chance met. "What to do! "What to do! Even though he is culturally inferior to me, he alone remains appealing to me then and now." She vividly saw his face when she closed her eyes.
At team meetings, sometimes the young accounting clerk became frustrated trying to help a particular member she had grown to like, understand something difficult even though it was often hopeless. One morning, she recalled such a meeting early in the new century, that had been monumentally unproductive and annoying. After observing the team's wheel-spinning, everyone wanted to talk and bellowed. Their individual goals were to stay awake and grandstand so others plus they, themselves, could hear the sound of their respective voices. Leann suddenly announced, "Let's take an early lunch break and meet back here at one."
Moments later, Leann was in her cubicle turned around to face the open window while enjoying her soup and salad alone. She liked to rest her eyes by focusing on distant points outside the window sixteen floors above the street after a grueling morning.
On this day, for the 'hundredth' time, the 20-year-old recalled how she met her first future hubby, John Porter: in the campus library
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