Fiction

After reading the second installment of Who Is She?, answer the following question: should Bart’s wife, after a sleepless night … (click on any of the options below to vote)

a) Call an old boyfriend?
b) Go to a spa and shape up?
c) Confide in her daughter, Lila?
d) Suggest to Bart they go on a romantic vacation?
e) Tell Bart they need to talk?

Bart was breathing heavily. She tried to sleep but couldn’t. Her heart pounded so powerfully that she could see the light summer blanket that covered them both beat to its beat. She understood what it was to have a broken heart and wondered if infidelity uncovered could cause you to die. She had heard a song of hearts standing still, but she had never felt its true searing. She hummed the tune to herself so as not to lose it.

I took one look at you

That’s all I meant to do

And then my heart stood still.

Hmmmm. Hmmmm.

Hmmmm…

She gently threw back the covers and watched her errant husband peacefully sleeping. She wanted to wake him, to scream at him, to pummel him. Instead, she climbed out of bed and lifted his pants off the chair where he had neatly put them. She searched the pockets: nothing. In his lizard-skinned wallet, which she had given to him as a birthday gift, was $62.00 — three twenties and two single bills along with some pictures of the kids. There was Bart Jr. at graduation, Lila and Sam together at Sam’s wedding, Sam’s wife, too. Pretty little thing. She kinda liked her daughter-in-law, though she wished Sam would call her like he used to. There was also a host of business cards — law firms, a computer company, and a few lunch receipts. Nothing suspicious. A chocolate mint wrapped in aluminum fell to the floor. Oh, yes, there was a picture of Godzilla, their ten-year-old sheepdog, but no picture of her, she noticed. She wondered when men stopped carrying pictures of their wives and substituted their dog. She wondered when Bart had stopped considering her a prize. For the first years of their marriage, he would often say how lucky he was to have found her. It reminded her, again, of some song, but she couldn’t remember the real lyrics. Something about "lucky to be me" or "you." She hummed the music. Searching for the words kept her on track.

Hmmm. Hmmmm. Lucky hmmmm me.

Hmmmmmmmmmmmm.

Hmmmm.

She hung his pants under his jacket. She searched the jacket pockets. Nothing. She bent to pick up the chocolate mint that had fallen to the floor and tore the packaging. But, it wasn’t a mint; it was a condom. She placed the evidence in the pocket of her robe. She breathed deeply. "So, darling Bart," she thought, "tonight was one of many or at least one of two." She would have him followed. She would hire a detective. She was losing her mind. When the kids had been dating she had often remarked that she hoped they were using condoms — little did she know she was advising their father. Should she be grateful he was practicing safe sex? She didn’t feel safe. She felt scared. What was it about men and marriage? She thought Bart was the exception. Men and sex; it was different than women and sex. Or, was it? Her friend, Victoria, had had a lover for twenty years and Harry didn’t know. Was it different for working women? Who knew?