|He’d Rather Be Wine Drunk
||[May. 26th, 2005|08:01 pm]
|||||John Coltrane - A Love Supreme||]|
"Well, this side of Paradise, there's very little comfort..." - Rupert Brooke
He had been married a little over a year when he realized that his wife had shunned the “love, honor and obey” vows she had so merrily taken during an overzealous Catholic ceremony cloaked in Southern Virginia sunshine. He swallowed a glass of red wine in one gulp and looked over the note that she had left taped to his computer screen: “I’ve been unfaithful to you in ways you can’t even imagine.” Mental rape, pure and simple. A final nail in the coffin of whatever was left of his sense of worth… and the she-devil knew that; it made her all the more powerful because she knew that he would forever wonder just how one could be unfaithful to one’s husband in ways he could not ever imagine. All sorts of Penthouse Forum-type of images flashed through his head with his wife the focal point and faceless men groping her in ways that he – yes, indeedy- could imagine. The infidelity was a shock, but not too much – at an after-hours party, he had caught her slipping her phone number into the palm of a sweaty cohort no more than a month before- yet, he was still distressed. Why? Because she had the upper hand in the final demise of their- he bitterly sniggered- relationship. He had wanted to end it, but here she had beaten him to the punch and sucker punched him with one hell of a Dear John letter. How could he compete with that one sentence? He couldn’t and he knew that wifey had won the battle that won the war. He poured himself another glass of wine and pondered his existence: a 28 years old, soon-to-be-divorced freelance writer who obviously couldn’t please a woman if his wife had been so disgruntled that she had to find creative hedonistic means to be unfaithful. The second glass of wine disappeared before he realized it, kind of like his wife if he wanted to get metaphorical about it. He decided that the third glass was a charm and, boy, did it start to do the trick. The Tijuana-bible tableaux that he had been imagining suddenly lost their detail- their colors faded. So did the tremors. He took the note and crumbled it into the wastebasket. After logging onto his computer, he managed to think of his own one-liner.