Have you ever entered a pub or a bar for simply a cold beer to quench your thirst and down the other end of the bar was a small group of people, all huddled around one man who was telling a story? The words he used were mesmerising even though all there knew there wasn't a truthful word being spoken. It was the rhythm and narration technique being used, which drew you in. He'd swear on his honour, that every word he uttered was true, may God strike him down if they weren't.
The following story, I swear on my honour, is true, may God strike me down if it isn't.
I wasn't surprised. I had expected what I found, which was why I had asked for the week off work. The boss told me to take three, as what I was experiencing was endemic in the Civil Engineering Industry, especially when we're perpetually on long distance sites. I stood in the bedroom doorway, and just looked. I was not so much angry, as disappointed. It had been a hot humid night, so of course they were naked. She had been on top, because she still was. I could see straight up between their legs where Russ was still inside her. His current erection would now be from pee pressure on his prostate, the old 'morning glory.' I'd just never seen it from this angle before. Perspiration was running off them in buckets. Their last one must have been a beauty, because by the looks, they had conked out when they finished.
Donna was due to leave for work in an hour.
I had driven down from the mountains, leaving the motel at two this morning, to miss the City traffic which otherwise I would have had to work through. A two o'clock start meant I went through the outer north western suburb streets about four, whereas the traffic jams start about five. I would arrive at Casa Mills Estate, at roughly seven. The company beast worked like clockwork, again ... that was, not well, more like a windup toy, occasionally with a broken spring. I don't pay for the fuel or repair services, so I didn't whinge.
My wife had kept herself fit by riding her horses and the running around you have to do, to keep them. Russ wasn't who I expected. 'Ex-pommy runt' was how most people described him. After this morning, I can describe him as 'a well hung, ex-pommy runt.' Actually, I shouldn't have been surprised, as Donna has been running him down to me for months. With her cunning and preplanning skills, it should have made him rather obvious. She had been even worse on, 'good-old-Bruce.' He was her, and used to be my, boss. It was more than likely that there were a few more lovers, all kept secret from each other. After five years of marriage, knowing her as I do was why I wasn't surprised. I would lay a dollar on three lovers at a minimum though.
I turned the jug on and turned the coffee maker on, I knew that coffee machine cost too much but she had insisted. I wondered who would get custody of the coffee machine. That was not a rhetorical question. The two teas were made and I made the coffee for Donna last, the last thing I needed this morning was a caffeine rush. They still hadn't moved so I put the hot mugs on their side of the bedside tables. A cold bucked of water may have been both appropriate and refreshing, but I didn't want to give them the pleasure. I am probably going to be sleeping on that bed of my late Nanna's tonight, so having it saturated would not be one of my better ideas.
Russ was a twenty year old virgin when we first met. Maybe Donna was the cure, maybe, because he's got the people skills of a three legged camel in flux, especially with women. Maybe this was just Donna's way of attempting to piss me off.
I heard the toilet flush and Russel poked his head around the corner of the hallway where I was leaning against the kitchen cupboard, "You didn't put sugar in it."
"I also didn't pour the boiling water down your back or punch you in the face either."
"There's that. I suppose you don't want to see my ugly mug ever again?"
"Russ, I've known you for three years. You couldn't seduce a girl with a handful of hundred dollar bills and a personality transplant swap with George Cluny. She fucked you just to rub my nose in it, so I can't blame you. However it may be a good idea if you made yourself scarce for the rest of the morning at least. She's late getting up, is she taking the day off
"Yeah, she wanted to have a day down at that nudist beach she hangs around, and talked me into having a day off too. I thought it was too good to be true. I'll surprise the boss and actually go to work."
"You'll surprise him even more if you actually did some work. Piss off. I'll see you in a couple of weeks once I've calmed down a little."
He was taking sips of tea as he pulled on his white shorts and a ragged pink singlet, then slipped his feet into his thongs, and left, clip-clopping down the stairs, without uttering another word. His Harley wasn't out front so he must have left it around the corner at his mate Benjie's, which gives a subtle nuance to last night's planning. She said it to me once, 'leave your car around the corner so people won't talk'. That was about seven years ago, pre her last divorce.
I finished my coffee and re-entered the bedroom. She was still out of it, her legs were still wide open where Russ had pulled himself out of her and from under her, she hadn't twitched an eyelid. Russel's semen was flooding from her vagina to soak the bed beneath her. I pulled the first of her empty suitcases from under the bed, then I lay it on the bedside which used to be my side, not quite touching her. Seeing that side was unruffled, they must have begun screwing the moment they got into bed, possibly even before, knowing her. My first thought was to look for pools of spoof on the veranda because it was cooler out there last night. I opened her wardrobe, that's the big, wall length one, not the piss-fart little one beside the front window where my clothes reside.
I mostly emptied the wardrobe, arms filled with her shit. I sat on the case and refastened the clips. It was heavy as I lowered it to the floor. The next case had some unused coat wire hangers still in it and I shovelled the rest of her good clothing on top of them. Next came her drawers usually filled with undies, I had noticed lately she had been wearing skirts more than jeans and her undies drawer had only a half a dozen pair in it. I checked the dirty clothes basket, only one pair of thong panties and no bra. Therefore she hasn't been replacing the panties, probably deeming them at present unnecessary.
There were only four bras in the drawer, and seeing it was a no-no, not to wear bras while riding horses, especially when you were built as she was, she must be spending a lot of time at old man Hanson's riding school, with a bra on and no panties. Her underclothes would be stored in the boot of the Ford for an instant change between sexual partners and riding horses. She once told me what young, horse mad girls meant by a satisfying ride, but not wearing undies out there means she was getting her rides for the cost of the sex. That's good economics but bad marriage management.
You might note that I didn't leave any clothes out for her to wear, today.
I carried the two suitcases out to the veranda and onto the tiled floor space where there wasn't any of her damned cactuses, (cacti, whatever) was a crusting pool of four hour old semen and her black, industrial strength bra; I wish I could pick lotto as well. I tossed the suitcases individually as far and hard as I could and both reached the five meters to the deep roadside gutter. My foot slipped a little on a second, fresher, pool of unnoticed semen so I would have to wash that veranda soon, before I break my neck.
On the kitchen breakfast bar I found her ornately patterned leather shoulder bag, which she carried her world in; at one time every three months or so, she got me to sort through it to remove the items she didn't have the heart to clean out herself. That hasn't happened for about a year, ergo there were things in there she hasn't wanted me to see for most of a year, even if she had to accept a migraine from the weight of the strap on her shoulder, pressing on a nerve. I lifted it. With two of them, you would have had an Olympic weightlifter's practice set of weights. I emptied it on the kitchen floor, and took the empty leather satchel, which I had bought her in our early days, and threw it as far as I could be bothered. It reached the roads off side, shallow, gutter, just missing the storm water drain.
On her key ring was a key tagged Daryl; that would be Hanson's, another said Bruce, she would go there straight after work, so there was no surprise there either. There was another tagged as Eddy; didn't know Eddy. Though she never told me this, she used to tell both her Mum, and her then husband, that she was doing some cleaning jobs on the way home. Then she'd come to my unit and we would screw like deranged weasels for an hour. If she saw the named keys, I would lay my next free dollar that these were houses she was 'cleaning for spare money.' Old man Hanson has a cleaner who came in every week. Also, the last thing he needed was someone else teaching the twelve and thirteen-year-olds to ride, as he has had a finger or two inside every one of them, to one depth or other. That's her two excuses for Hanson, gone.