The next week, just before Tuesday noon, as usual, I arrived at William's for our ritual romp with a view but also to see his finished deck. Crossing the Narrows Bridge, I reflected on how it once collapsed in a wind storm, an ominous premonition.

Am I being followed? Have I covered everything? I’ll pull off the road and see if anyone else does.

Stopping at a gas station, I went through my pedantic circumspection checklists. No insinuation of a slip up came to mind. Each possible exposure hazard was refuted and as the gas nozzle bucked back indicating a full tank, it was apparent no one followed me. With recouped confidence, I banished my foreboding and drove back on the highway to William’s, yet a premonition of danger clung to my subconscious.

As standard, he stood by the living room bay window for my arrival, pushed the garage door opener when I drove in the driveway, went to the garage stairs top landing to greet me as I drove in the garage, pushed the garage door button as I parked and the garage door rumbled down as I alighted. At the top of the stairs, he greeted me with a kiss and a glass of wine, my misgivings finally dismissed.

After wine, cheese, and admiration of the new deck, we went to his bedroom, the door closed but ajar as in his usual ritual. After my top mount, we rolled over for his fastidious finish. We looked at one another as he moved slowly in and out to avoid a premature ejaculation.

To extend play time he periodically ceased movement to let his penis calm down. Sometimes he would even stiffen and jerk it out for a little respite.

He suddenly stiffened and jerked it out. I smiled to encourage its re-entry when calmed but his face flashed fear. He arched back. He was listening to something awry.

The door slammed open against the wall, she screamed.

"You bastard!"

He jumped up and turned to face her. She took off and threw a peach-colored pump which hit the headboard above me, a near miss.

Closer, she flung the other with better aim as I sat up. It hit my shoulder hard as she screamed,

"Bitch, you, you fucking whore!"

She collapsed in a heap on the floor. William rushed naked, except for the condom on his withering penis, to her. She lay crumpled, sobbing over and over, "You bastard!" until it became a whimper.

He tried to hold her but she pushed him away. He sat naked next to her as she sobbed while he pleaded over and over.

"I'm sorry."

I sat ignored on the bed, only a sheet for protection, holding my bruised shoulder as she lay on the floor askew, hugging one knee with the other leg splayed out. Her skirt had risen and I saw she wore a peach-colored slip that matched the color of the pumps she threw.

She stopped her whimpering sobbing, “You bastards,” looked up at me, her mascara streaked down her cheeks, a mess. I saw hate.

I stared then at him, saw his sobbed, “I’m sorry, love," pleas. He loved her.

I’m abandoned. She hates me! He loves her! I’m nothing!

Throwing the false safety of the sheet aside, I scampered out of bed, grabbed my clothes and purse, ran out of the bedroom, and dressed on the run down the spiral staircase. As my feet felt the cold cement garage floor, I realized I’d left my panty and a pearl necklace William had given me as a present behind.

In the garage, hopping around, my blouse and skirt finally on, feet jammed into shoes, (thankfully flats), holding my, purse and bra I pushed the garage door opener. My desire for the safety of my car and escape numbed the shoulder pain. Sliding on to the care seat I reflected.

Panty and necklace, don’t care, get out of here, just get out, go home. Thank God, I didn't take off hubby's earrings and bracelet. Necklace and panty, there’re his now, like she is. She can have him and them. Ha, I hope she wears them! I'd love to see that! She’s right, he’s a bastard and the bastard's all hers.

Roughly dressed, the car door closed and locked, I got the car key from my purse as the garage door clanked open.

When I turned the key, the car started, a relief. I looked in the rear-view mirror. I too was a mess with smeared lipstick, streaked mascara, matted hair. Looking beyond myself in the mirror, I realized her car was a Mercedes too, it was a beige color.

It was in the driveway! It blocked my escape! I turned, cranked my neck right to left to scan the rear.

There must be a squeeze through! Oh no, no way, I’m trapped!

I turned off the motor and tried to calm myself with my head against the steering wheel, crying. I was stuck. She had to come down and move the car. I had to let her know. I tapped the horn and waited, I tapped again and then a honk and another honk. I opened the door and screamed, "Get me out of here!"

There was no response. I waited again, counted to 100. Then I lay down hard on the horn until eventually he came, wearing a bathrobe but without shoes. He had her keys. He tippy-toed to her car on the rough gravel and backed her car out of the way. He didn’t look at me. I didn’t return his indifference.

I pushed the window down button, stuck my hand out and waved him the finger as I sped back out of the driveway onto the safety of the frontage road while holding the horn down. On the road home I screamed and cried until calmed to sniffles. I mentally started with the scream.

She's right, he's a bastard, and I'm a fucking whore.

Driving on, I belittled myself, over his leaving me to fend for myself as he chanted over her.

"I'm sorry."

It's obvious she's his love entrée, I'm only hors d'oeuvre, no, dessert, only desert. Ha, just a cheap ice-cream dessert! Ha, I'm chocolate ice cream!

By the time I reached the Narrows Bridge, I was thinking, No, I’m his appetizer. The cheapo one, Calamari! No, a cheap won ton!

Passing Stellicom, it became, I'm just a bowl of soup made from leftovers, no, just a salad. I’m tossed green, no shrimp or crab, not even blue cheese just spinach!

Turning off I-5, I dropped in to just buy snack food and pulling into the driveway, it was just a potato chip, a chip without a dip.

I worked myself into a fury again of how he treated me as I undressed but when showering, I burst out laughing, I had it all wrong.

He's the potato chip. He's junk food. It's time for me to diet!

Out in the yard, I trimmed roses, felt better as I laughed about Mr. Potato Chip. My entrée would be home soon. I went back into the house and started cooking for him.

While things were in the oven, I redressed and put on fresh makeup. We ate with candlelight and a bottle of Pinot wine. After dessert, we had Drambuie to warm the glow of our repast. I was again a wife. I enjoyed making and being my husband's entrée, back to who I, in reality, was.

,

                              
I erased thoughts of Mr. Potato Chip, put him in the kid’s Mr. Potato Head category, a joke.

The confrontation by his true love, her slung shoe, her scream, “Bitch, you, you fucking whore,” slur, my shoulder pain, all left behind, so I assumed. My premonition driving to William’s, however, came back to haunt me.