A FLASH STORY

Honey, We Need to Talk

The temperature kept creeping up to the start of the red and I’d look down from the traffic to the dashboard, praying I’d make it home. I kept the heat on full blast, trying to keep out the winter chill and slow down any overheating. My cell had crapped out that morning and I’d spilled some coffee on my lap when I got into the truck on my way out of the 7-Eleven. Pulling into the complex, there was a strange car parked in my driveway.

It just wasn’t my day.

The pickup had gotten me from Boston to Birmingham just fine and now steam was pouring out from under the hood as I pulled up in front of the apartment. Sighing, I got out. I could feel the heat coming off the metal and popped the hood and let it be for a while. I had some antifreeze inside. Waiting until I changed my pants and grabbed a beer wouldn’t hurt anything.

Jack Night waved as I walked up to my door. He could go fuck himself. The son of a bitch had complained to the apartment management company about the size of my flag until they finally made me replace it. Meanwhile, he blasted The Monkees well past what should have been quiet hours while outside with his telescope trying to catch a glimpse at the moon and I never said a freakin’ word.

Plastering a smile on my face, I waved back and kept going. If I hear “Last Train to Clarksville” or another of his anecdotes about busty librarians again I was going to lose my damned mind.

Ignoring the garland and wreath that usually picked me up, I walked through the door, kicked off my boots and walked into the kitchen. Stopping in my tracks, I paused, backed up a few feet and looked into the living room. Yup. There she was, sitting on the couch with some stranger. He was sitting way too close and was turned towards her. I didn’t need to be a body-language expert to read him.

He was being Mr. Supportive.

She looked at him and then to me. “Steve, honey ... We need to talk.”

That was the last thing I needed. “Yeah? We do? Who’s this, Cheryl?”

“This, uh, this is Mark. Honey, Mark and I work together and, well, we’ve gotten close over the past month and ... Steve, could you just sit down for a minute? Mark listens to me and we talk, I mean really talk. He’s a great conversationalist and, well, it sort of ... grew. We went to lunch a few times and then dinner and ... Maybe a bit more.”

“How much more, Cheryl? Did you fuck him?”

Mr. Supportive decided to become Mr. Protective. “Hey, there’s no need for...”

“Shut your fucking mouth. The next time you speak without being spoken to I’m going to grab my bat and cave in your skull, understand me, Mr. Conversations? Nod your head if we’re clear.”

He nodded.

“Answer my question, Cheryl. You set up lunches, you set up dinners, didja set up any scenes for sex? We know how good you’re at that, don’t we?”

“I, uh, no. Not ... no. I told Mark that I was married and we couldn’t continue and he thought we could talk. You and I. That we could have a conversation like adults about maybe ... opening our relationship a bit. We’ve discussed this. Listen, you didn’t even notice anything different over the past month, did you? You go out to the range with Todd, you go to the stables with Stefan, you go golfing with Woody, you come home and there I am. Have I turned you down? Has anything changed?”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I picked up a photo that had the two of us with Mom at the Grand Canyon. It was taken two years ago. We’d taken her with us for her 60th birthday gift. Alan had taken the photo and it was beautiful. I tossed it to the ground.

“We’re supposed to go visit Matt in two weeks. Mr. Conversationalist coming with us? Maybe he can stay here and keep Nora company while we’re gone. Better yet, maybe he can go for me. His passport up to date?”