I haven't written anything in a while, sorry about that (although that's kind of an arrogant thing to say, as if you guys are waiting with bated breath for Jezzaz to bestow upon you his wonderful writing! Yeah, right:)) Real life has been all consuming recently. Hopefully, you guys will accept this in the meantime, until I can finish some of the other stuff I have going.
This story is slow; there is no explicit sex but plenty of references. Since it is so slow, I decided to drop it all as one entry rather than chapters, as I normally do. It is a slow burn, so be aware that it's not my normal fare. If you are one of those people who talks about how wordy my stories are, you might want to give this one a miss, fair warning.
We never really do hear about what happens to the woman who leaves for whatever reason, do we? Most of the time we hear about it from the point of view of the person left behind, never hers. I thought it might be interesting to hear from her perspective...
I will get back to finishing Ingrams, and also making sure Ryan gets what is coming to him soon...
I hope this resonates with some out there.
Edited by the incomparable Blackrandi1958 and also input from GirlInTheMoon, both of whom are terrific writers and also awesome humans for spending their time making this better.
The Wrong Side of Smart.
Jeff clattered his plate onto the table, and I winced, but when he drank his water, slurping it, and burped at the end of it, I just lost it. Finally, irrevocably, and totally, I lost it.
I was so far at the end of my rope, I couldn't see the start of it. My nerves were so frayed you could plat them. I'd had enough, and I just screamed, "I goddamn well want a divorce!"
There was a stunned silence. Me, because I couldn't believe I'd finally given voice to the all-consuming thought I'd had for the past six months, and him, well, because he couldn't believe anything was amiss in The Life of Jeff. He just stared at me, the glass of water on the way to the table.
"Whh... What?" he said, with that stupid wobble in his voice he always had when he was surprised.
What the hell. I'd said it now. It was finally out there. Go for broke, girl. Let it all out.
"Yeah, I do. Jesus, Jeff, you can't possibly have not noticed how pissed off I've been over the past six months? I mean, even in your poor-ass deluded state you've got to have an inkling that I'm ready to walk? Surely?"
"Well, yeah, I just thought..."
His voice trailed away. Oh, this I
had
to hear.
"Thought what?"
"Well..." he squirmed, obviously uncomfortable. "I thought... well, you are hitting your late... forties. I thought... Menopause?" The last word was almost whispered.
I sat there, speechless. He actually thought I was going through menopause? This fucking clueless moron. I started feeling better about my outburst. He deserved it.
"I'm forty-six, you mother-fucker," I hissed through clenched teeth.
"I can still have kids for years. Unlike you, you fucking waste of space. When was the last time you got it up without a blue pill??" I sneered at him. It was all coming out now.
He was taken aback. "I thought... when we used those, it was..."
"It was what? Great? An all-nighter? Fuck. You waste most of those anyway, cos you just roll over when you are done and start snoring. What the fuck? You think you're some great lover? Casanova?"
I wasn't being quite fair here, there were times when he still had to peel me off the ceiling, but I wasn't about to let him know that. They were few and far between and in the last year, rarer than finding rocking-horse shit. And to totally honest, it's not like I instigated it much, or even really participated that much beyond being physically present. I mean, there's only so many half-hearted attempts to get yourself off you can take, right?
He did snore though, and that was another brick in the wall of Let's Get Jan Divorced. When we were done and he rolled over, instead of actually, you know, cuddling or something, he just started the snorting and snoring. It's enough to drive anyone to drink. In fact, that's exactly what I do. I get up and have a glass of wine, get my breath back, watch an episode of
Sex in the City
and wonder if any of those bitches ever had to deal with a snoring husband for seventeen years. I'm willing to bet not. That's not a script with a nice half hour resolution, however real it might be.
Frankly, what I
really
wanted was a joint. We used to have those back in the day, but since the kids came along? NooOOOooo. Not in the house, decreed Saint Jeff. The moment they came along, all fun ceased. Well, it sure felt like it. No more Saturday nights out, blasted to the gills. No more weed tasting parties. Those were the best! What I remember of them, anyway.
The fact is, I hated my life. I hated the man I'd married, who had singularly failed to make anything of himself. Oh sure, the kids loved him, but then what kids wouldn't? He had a job making toys, for god's sake. Toys! He went to college for that. I mean, seriously, he did. He has a master's degree in child psychology, for whatever that was worth. You have any idea how you explain that to your girlfriends? You don't just blithely drop that little tidbit in, when everyone is comparing husband's dick size, let me tell you. I usually tell them, airily, "Oh, he's got a degree in psychology and spends his days putting that to good use," and then move on hurriedly. It has the dual effect of making him sound more mysterious, thank Christ, and also meaning I don't have to go into details, because while I hate liars, I'd lie my fucking head off if I was really pressed about shit like that. I mean, wouldn't you? He makes toys for fucking toddlers, for shit's sake.
I mean, sure, I knew that going in. Obviously, but I figured he'd be doing shit like coming up with national curriculums to make kids learn faster or stuff like that, not advising TV shows like
Little Einstein
s
. I mean, seriously? How do I spin that as a worthy job for my husband?
Melissa— she's my bestie, over at Moccha Realty, where I work— her husband was a NASCAR Mechanic. Now that's worth bragging about. Cyndi? Her husband designs earthquake resistant buildings. Joanie, she's married to a judge. Okay, traffic court, but still, he's a judge.
I don't want you to get the impression that I'm all just surface view, though. I know the value of doing what you love, reflected happiness and all the rest of it. I get it. God knows, selling and leasing commercial real estate wasn't quite where I expected to be at this point in my life either. I don't honestly know
where
I expected to be, really, but this frustrated, this fed up with my husband and my marriage, yeah, not there, not at all.
The thing is, I could bore you with a litany of issues I have with my husband; there's no one big thing that's wrong. He doesn't beat me or ignore me, or ignore the kids or abuse them. It's more like death by a thousand cuts. He snores, he burps, he farts. I know, he has a gastrointestinal tract imbalance. I hear that every time he farts in public, but you know what? That only goes so far. I know it's not 'his fault', but there comes a point where he farts at the crucial moment of a movie and all your friends who are over for a dinner party start laughing that you just can't deal any more.