The Coward
By Bruce Watson. All rights reserved.
"Civilization is but a thin veneer stretched across the passions of the human heart." Bill Moyers
Climbing the stairs to the second floor of his house, Andrew Shan heard the moans coming out of his bedroom and wondered again if he was doing the right thing. He didn't have to be here: he'd sent the PI's report to his attorney and filed the papers, setting the cold machinery of the legal system in motion. He could end it all with zero contact, zero stress--a sterile transaction, in which Doreen would get the papers and he would wash his hands of the whole sordid affair.
He'd thought hard about taking the easy route, but something about it stuck in his craw. He'd been there at the beginning of their relationship, and it seemed only right that he be there at the end. Then, too, there was something about the running away, the cowardice of it all. Sure, he'd be protecting himself, but he'd also be giving her a free pass. Protecting
her
from the ugliness of her mess, from the consequences of her stupid, shitty failure.
But the big thing, the real reason he was there, was that he needed a definitive ending, an absolute closure. It was hard to escape the ingrained habits he'd learned over their five years together, and they both knew that, if Doreen pushed hard enough, he'd usually cave. Sure, this was different than an argument over the color of a couch or the shape of a headboard--this was a matter of principle, and that's something he never bent on--but at the end of the day, he knew he'd be faced with the bleak choice between a teary, remorseful wife and an unknown future in the dating world, and he didn't trust himself to not give in.
He needed something that would slam the door on any reconciliation. And if that meant that he needed to put his fingers in Christ's wounds, see the look on her face and know that the life they had built together was dead and buried--well, that was what he was going to do.
He'd read the transcripts, so he knew the way they talked about him when they got together, but it was different hearing it through the door of his bedroom. Different hearing her screaming out her ecstasy. Hearing her soul-crushing insults.
"Does he fuck you like this?"
The bed was slamming against the wall, pounding out a bass accompaniment to the staccato beat of her high-pitched moans. Drew wondered how the wall hadn't cracked, how he'd never noticed scratches on the bed, scuffs in the paint.
Something
.
"Never--
uh
--NEVER fucked me like this! Only you!"
Drew's pulse was rising.
Calm the fuck down!
He took a deep breath, then another one. Felt the coolness pouring into him. The pain and anger flowing out.
Pound, pound.
"Whose pussy is it?"
"You--
uh
--yuh--"
Pound, pound, POUND.
"WHOSE pussy is it, bitch? WHOSE?"
"Yuh--
uh--
YOURS!"
It came out as a scream. A wail. Drew had heard that sound enough times to know what was happening. She was coming. Flooding the douchebag's dick.
The pounding slowed, and Drew chose that moment to slam open the door. Doreen was on her knees, her hands white-knuckling the headboard, while the asshole was clutching her from behind. Drew stifled a laugh. It was just so ridiculous--her boyfriend's gangly arms holding onto her hips as his scrawny ass pumped into her. An image flashed into Drew's head--a spider monkey fucking a thoroughbred. He snorted.
Shithead looked up and sneered, right before Drew grabbed his oily hair and yanked him off his wife. The naked man fell on the ground beside the bed in a tangle of limbs, his face red with rage and embarrassment. He scrambled to get up, but Drew put his size ten in the middle of his chest and slammed him back into the floor.
"One word, asshole," he growled. "One word, and you're pissing through a catheter." He glanced at the douchebag's shrinking cock. "A
small
catheter."
Drew watched the quick play of emotions across her boyfriend's face. Rage. Fear. Disbelief. And... finally... understanding. The realization that, in all his manly posturing about the stupid, weak man he was cucking, he'd neglected a few important pieces of information--information that, now, could mean the difference between walking out under his own steam or going out in a stretcher.
His eyes fixed on Drew's and he nodded slowly, carefully. Drew took his foot off, and he slowly got up. Drew let him. Head down, he gathered his clothes while Doreen watched, stunned, from the bed.
"Drew...Uh, baby--" Doreen started.
"Not now," he snapped. "Let Casanova finish his walk of shame." The asshole started to glance up, then thought better of it. A moment later, he was gone.
That was when Drew realized his mistake. The plan had been to do this all quickly--kick the boyfriend out, tell Doreen the terms of divorce, and get the hell out of Dodge. Ten minutes, tops. By the time she got her act together, he would be long gone.
He'd remembered the big stuff--lining up a place to stay, splitting the accounts, closing out the credit cards. When Doreen was served tomorrow morning, their separation would be official, at least as far as the bank, the court, and his company's HR was concerned.
But he'd forgotten to pack a bag. He'd meant to save it to the last minute--no need to alert Doreen with an empty closet--but in the flurry of moving money, filing papers and informing HR, it had fallen through the cracks.
He sighed. Nothing to do for it now. Shock and awe had bought him a little time; with any luck, he could still get out before she had a chance to get her bearings. He pulled a suitcase out of the closet and tossed it on the bed, narrowly missing her feet. "Drew--"
He was throwing clothes into the bag. Two suits and three shirts, two pairs of slacks and one pair of jeans. No need to worry about wrinkles--they wouldn't be in there long.
"Drew!"
He flinched. "Doreen, let me save you some time: I know this isn't the first time. I know you met him at work. I know about the Starlite Inn, and I know what you said to him while you were in bed together." He looked at the heap of clothes in the suitcase. Did he really need to take all the hangers? He shrugged--better safe than sorry--and moved on to his dresser. Five pairs of underwear, five pairs of socks. "I know more than enough, Doreen. I'm going for irreconcilable differences. A 50/50 split of assets. No alimony, and I keep the house."
Doreen's face was pale. She snuffled. "I can't live on that."