We'd served together in Iraq, Roger and me. We'd joined up right after high school. In country and out we'd had each other's back. It'd never been an issue for either of us, until I'd actually saved the asshole's life.
That day, because of the ungodly noise of the wind and the sandstorm, it'd been kicking up pretty good; he didn't hear the truck, nor did he see it since he had his back to it. Worse, in our desert fatigues the driver didn't see Roger or me either, not until the last second at any rate. But I did see him, the driver. I slammed Roger up hard against the wall, but since I was a couple of feet further out into the street protecting Roger, the truck hit me. The fact that the driver had finally slammed on the brakes saved me: I was injured, punctured lung, broken arm, broken leg; I survived.
Roger was suitably grateful: he visited me every day in the medic's tent till the evac guys finally got me to the capitol. And, his gratitude being boundless, he swore undying affection for me and mine. The "mine" part proved truer than the "me" part.
For the record I'm Wilbur Chandler. My wife, Sally Chandler nee Dorn. She and I met at a party six months after both Roger and I had mustered out. Six months after that Sally and I had gotten hitched. That was nine years ago now.
Sally is a princess, me, Joe average. But, I'm an okay looking average, and I can dance—my only social saving grace.
Sally was beautiful then as now. Oh and now? five-eight, one twenty, lustrous brown hair to her shoulders, C-cups, and a butt that could have launched thousand ships.
Oh yeah, and me, now? Five-seven, one-forty, thinning hair, and really thick lensed glasses. Oh, and I'm a mechanic, a good one; and, a well-paid one if it matters.
Oh, and our common age—thirty-two.
I watched as he took her. I was sick. Sick at heart, sick to my stomach, sick in my very soul: my marriage was over. My soulmate was—well—was not. My best friend was also a not. It was going to be very hard for me, very hard. I'd loved her since high school. Now, it was over.
I stepped into the room. "Sally... ?" I said in a flat voice. God I sounded wimpy; no, I sounded as one in pain! Their heads snapped around to see me. Initial shock was replaced by looks of sympathy—that on her part. Him? His look bespoke amusement. Roger—who incidentally is single—always was a never-take-anything-seriously kind of guy. Clearly, fucking his best friend's wife was not a big deal to him, certainly not something to be taken all that seriously; hence, his look of amusement rather than of guilt or sympathy.
"Oh Wilbur, you surprised us, dear. Just go back downstairs, and wait for me. We're almost done here," she said. I didn't move I was rooted to the spot staring at the two of them.
"Go on get out, Will," he said impatiently. "You can have her back when I'm done," he said. And, again, 'he' of course, was the same Roger, Roger Hardy, my now ex-best friend, local bar owner, and Sally's boss, and yeah, the guy I'd saved.
Suddenly I was overcome with rage. I charged him. He had disengaged himself from my wife and was ready for me. I unloaded a right-left combination to his face. Problem was, it didn't faze him. He grabbed me by the scruff of my neck, pushed me down to an almost squatting position, and frog walked me out of my own bedroom. Out in the hallway he held me by my scruff; he looked, what, irritated.
"She said get out bud. You don't got it when it comes to this stuff. I got it, and she needs it. "I'm giving it to her, and you can have her back shortly," he said, slamming the door in my face. As he turned to go back in, he was laughing like it was all a big joke. Perhaps I should note here that my ex best friend is six-four and right at two-hundred and thirty pounds.
I stood staring at the door for the whole time they remained inside. Loser me! Well, I was a loser, clearly. He on the other hand was a lover, always had been.
I was stunned, couldn't believe what was happening. I heard my wife scream in pleasure at least twice. I sobbed uncontrollably. Like I said, I'm a loser, and I know it.
Maybe half an hour later the door sprang open. He came out still buttoning his shirt. "Thanks!" he said, "no biggee. Sorry about before. But, well, we were in the middle of it, you know. See yuh later. We'll talk." He was staring straight into my eyes as he finished buttoning up and said his spiel.
I just stared back at him, not saying anything.
"Get over it, guy; it was nothing," he said, smiling and turning to go. She finally emerged, and sighed her frustration at my emotional state.
"Oh, Wilbur, don't worry. I still love you. Roger and I were just playing. Really," she said. "Wait here. I will be back in a moment." She turned from me and walked him down the stairs. I heard them talking but couldn't catch what they were saying."
A minute or two later she returned to me. "Don't worry, dear, he's not replacing you. You're my love, my husband," she said. I shook my head.
"Not anymore, Sally. You can have the traitorous asshole or whomsoever, just not me. Not anymore." I retraced my steps into the room that had been ours for nine years, ever since returning from the Middle East. I searched out my jacket and my small tube bag, the one I used for carrying changes of clothes that I needed on the rare occasions I travelled anywhere.
I wasn't gonna be taking much of anything. I didn't need to. My bank account was separate from hers. I'd have enough money to buy whatever I needed. Apart from my work clothes and a couple of pairs of jeans and a few shirts I didn't need much. She could give the rest to Goodwill or whomsoever. The less I had to remind me of her and my fuckwad used-to-be-best friend the better.
She'd followed me up the stairs and watched as I packed the few things I needed and slipped on my jacket.
"Wilbur, honey, you're overreacting. He's a meaningless interlude and nothing more. He's your best friend! He adores you, really. For godssake stop packing and listen to me. Please."
"Best friend? Not any fucking more He manhandled me out of my own bedroom so that he could screw you some more. And, you didn't say a damn thing to him about it or try to get him to stop doing what he was doing to me. Then, just now, you ushered him out like he had a right to be here and to do those things to me," I said, "or should I say 'do' you."
"It isn't like that," she said.
"Oh, then how is it?" I said. "I'd really like to know."
"You attacked him. He had to defend himself. He didn't hurt you. I appreciated that. He could have hurt you. So, yes, I walked him out for that reason," she said. "I thanked him for not hitting you. That's all."
"He did hurt me, Sally. He humiliated me to the point that he has destroyed my marriage to the woman I had long thought of as my soulmate. I guess I was wrong about that. Hell, you helped him destroy me. You're nothing but a cheating whore! I will never dip my wick in your filthy pussy again, not if it was the last pussy on earth. And you can take that to the bank. But, as for that, I guess you wouldn't care much about that anyway," I said.
"Wilbur you've got it all wrong," she said.
"Do I? You wanna stay married to me?" I said.
"Yes, definitely," she said.
"He got his cell with him?" I said.
"Well, yes, of course," she said.
"Call him. Tell him to fuck himself, that you quit your job at his fucking bar, and that you never want to see him again," I said. "Do it now, and we'll talk, you and I."
"Look, Wilbur, let's talk first. I'll call him if you want after we talk. How's that?" she said.
"No. Now or never," I said. She sighed her frustration with me.
"That's what I thought. Have a miserable life, Sally, we're done." I strode out, and left.
I shacked up with a friend, Mickey Stewart, for the next couple of days. Just went to work, and tried to forget at least some of my pain. I reinforced that effort after work with a few shots of JD on the rocks. My new hangout, was the Sunset Bar and Grill. I had been a regular at Hardy's, my wife's place of work and my now ex best friend's store. Well, I was a regular until my marriage imploded; obviously I could never go back there.
Three days after the blowup, I guess she thought that I'd had a chance to cool off—not even was the reality—she showed up at the shop.
Me and couple of other guys were working at lifting the head out of an older model Caddy.
"Wilbur, can we talk for a minute," said the voice from behind me. She'd startled me. I turned to look at her. She looked great, no doubt part of the assault she was about to make on my psyche.
"No," I said, "we're through."
"Wilbur, you need to come home. We'll fix our problem tonight after dinner. Okay?" she said. She was doing this right in front of two of my compadres.
"Sally, there is no fixing it. Not ever. Please leave," I said. I was beginning to feel uncomfortable with her standing there airing our dirty laundry in front of God and everybody.
"Look, Wilbur," she lowered her voice; but it was sure that the two guys with me could still hear her, "dick size isn't something you can do anything about. It is what it is. Roger just fills that single need. That's all. My face had to be turning a dozen shades of red as she said what she was saying. "He's good in bed but otherwise he's an asshole. Okay?"
.... There is more of this story ...