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Fucking Up My Life

Will her obsession with the wild side catch up with her this time?
I pound the steering wheel, impatiently waiting for a chance to pull into traffic. A sheriffs’ car appears several cars down in the opposite lane, signaling a turn into the driveway. Panicked, when a tiny gap appears in my lane, I shoot out onto the highway, saluted by the blaring horn of the driver I cut off. The officer barely looks at me as I pass him. The light is with me, and I see him still waiting to cross traffic as I escape up the side road. One bullet dodged.

I promised myself it wouldn’t happen this time, but here I am, in much greater hazard than ever before. In the past I’d always left myself at least ten or twelve hours before he got home – usually a day or more. Plenty of time to make sure that there were no marks, no evidence. Plenty of time to come up with a story if there were. Tonight I had no time; he could be waiting for me now.

This wasn’t a long trip. He was away only four days, just three nights. Other than the grocery store or Perry's for lunch, I stayed home. This afternoon I left home a little early so I could reward myself with a visit to the mall on the way. I would have been OK if the damn airlines could stick to a schedule. The cell phone rang while I was trying on a pair of sneakers, and suddenly I had two and a half hours to kill.

I chose the restaurant because of its famous chicken tenders, free popcorn and big screen TV’s. No tables were available, but I didn’t mind eating at the bar. Ten minutes later, they settled on the stools next to me, sharp khaki camouflage uniforms, maroon berets, two weeks back from Afghanistan. I wasn’t drinking, but they were.

Two hours later, they staggered back toward the restaurant while I frantically struggled into my clothes in the back of my small SUV. I had crawled out and started to straighten out the back of the car when raised voices caught my attention. My erstwhile companions stood at the corner of the building in a heated exchange with a guy in a shirt and tie who gestured repeatedly toward me. I caught only a few words: “kids,” “complaints,” “family place,” “police.”

I took just long enough to wad up the stadium blanket we had all used as a towel and to throw it over the snow bank. Then I jumped into the car, and in an instant was off and around the building, leaving them to deal with the fall out.

It’s only a ten minute drive, but by the time I pull into a spot in the parking garage I am shivering. Worse yet, even after driving with all the windows open, it seems that the aroma of beer and sex still fills the car or clings to me. Or both. I can only hope that it is not as noticeable as it seems to me. There’s no time to do anything about it, anyway.

I pop another mint into my mouth and get out of the car. Standing in the frigid air, I run my fingers through my hair, straighten out my clothes, and check to see if my jeans are wet through. I rub my butt, where I am pretty sure there is going to be a bruise. Hopefully it won’t look too much like a bite mark. Ducking back inside, I scan the back seat for evidence.

One of them dropped his condom in the cup holder. I pick it up with a tissue and throw it under the car. I find the foil wrapper balled up in the sticky mess I wipe out of the cup holder. On the floor I find the second condom – the one that broke. It goes under the car, too. The goo that should have been in that one is making my panties uncomfortably damp. That, along with the fact that I can’t locate the second condom wrapper, isn’t helping my anxiety level at all.

I search the glove box for wet wipes. There is only a package of widow wipes. I grab them, and as I stride toward the entrance, scrub my face and hands with several, hoping that the chemical smell will erase, or at least obscure, the smells of beer, pussy and sweat.

There’s a bank of monitors right inside the door. There it is – “Fight 1766: Arrived.” Shit! I hurry toward the gate. As I step off the escalator he walks through the security checkpoint. We rush to embrace.

We hug and kiss and exchange the usual airport banalities. He takes my hand and starts toward the escalator. As we glide down he reaches forward to smooth the back of my hair. “Is it windy?” he asks.

“Oh yeah, it was very gusty a little while ago.” Let the lies begin. Again.

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