As you all may have noticed, I've been gone for awhile. Well, not gone, per se, but really lazy. I could tell you I've been working on some things, but frankly, except for a couple of finals that weren't that hard and some moving that took a couple of days, I've really got no excuses at all. That being said, I did write one thing this quarter. I took a fiction writing class on the way to my utterly useless but quite enjoyable creative writing minor, and I'm going to share something I wrote for it with you. In theory it's still in the revision process, so feel free to chime in with any constructive criticism.
Also, before I begin, let it be known that I'm working 1-6pm Monday through Thursday this summer, so if I don't keep posting stuff, stone me. Or just pester me on AIM. Either way, I'll probably end up getting stoned. Okay, sub par pun over; here's the story.
Grin
“I found out because the retard wrote himself a reminder to fuck my wife.”Jack fucked my wife. He fucked my wife and I never would've guessed. Why would I, though? Jack didn't need to fuck my wife. Jack was still getting laid like he had in college. He could have gone to a bar and left with the best-looking girl in there every time, without fail. I guess I should've taken it as a sign that even if the best-looking girl was with her boyfriend, he didn't let that stop him.
Still, this was my life. Jack had known Lucy since college, just like me, but she was one of a rare few who took a shine to me instead of him. Until now. Until Jack fucked my wife.
Jack didn't know I knew. Neither did Lucy. I found out a couple of weeks ago, and I didn't see the point in telling either of them. Of course, that meant acting like nothing had happened, pretending things were normal.
“Paul. Paul. Hello? Anybody home? Stop daydreaming, man. The second half's about to start.”
“Sorry, guess I just didn't get enough sleep last night,” I said.
And so it was that I ended up on the couch next to the man who fucked my wife, watching the game. I couldn't not watch the game with him. Watching the game, stereotypical as it may seem, is what we do, and passing on it would have been akin to telling him that I knew he fucked my wife. In fact, I think we once actually joked that that was the only thing that could ever get between us and football.
“Are you kidding me? Paul – Clayton just fumbled the ball and you haven't blinked. Are you on Prozac or something?” Jack said.
“Not since grad school,” I deflected.
“Probably just some side effect of your Cialis, then,” Jack said, grinning widely.
His jokey verbal abuse had become much less tolerable since I'd found out, but I continued to take it. At first, I wasn't sure why, but it slowly dawned on me that I couldn't just tell him I knew. Honestly, it had a lot to do with shame. I'd been betrayed and admitting it to him would have been admitting it to myself. Hell, part of it was just the fact that I didn't know what to say to either of them. I'd always had trouble starting serious conversations, especially about relationships, and I could just picture this one getting incredibly awkward when I ran out of things to say after one sentence. Really though, I wanted him to understand just what he'd done, but I couldn't exactly get him back with a taste of his own medicine – even if I'd managed to steal a girl from him, he would've forgotten her name and found another.
“My hero!”
Jack's words broke through my meditation. I looked at him. He was grinning again – always grinning – and had his hand over his heart, thumping his chest. I looked to the kitchen door and saw Lucy, standing there smiling with a plate of Tostitos and guacamole.
Lucy grinned in response as she set the food on the coffee table, and I felt a wave of nausea that was almost immediately overwhelmed by the adrenaline that came with my rage. I knew this was the moment, and I got up from my chair and calmly walked to the stairs. As I began to ascend them, I felt my anger start to wane with each step. I tried to force myself to feel the fury of a minute ago, but by the time I got to the landing, all of the energy had left me, and I stood there feeling powerless, ashamed of my own inability to do anything. My legs felt heavy as I trudged down the steps and slumped into my chair.
“Where'd you run off to?” Jack asked.
“Uh, just thought I left my cell phone upstairs, then realized it was in my pocket.”
“Some days you're so retarded,” Jack laughed.
Fuck you, scumbag. He was unbelievable – I'd found out about the whole thing because the retard wrote himself a reminder to fuck my wife. I was at his apartment, and while he was in the shower I decided to check my email. His iCal was open, and while normally I couldn't have cared less what was on his schedule, my eyes were drawn to the word “Lucy.” Upon closer inspection, her name was preceded by the words “Sex with.” At first I assumed it was a joke, but I never used his computer, and Jack hated a joke with no punchline, so it didn't seem likely he would have put it there unless he knew I was going to see it.
After a little thought, I figured that on the off chance he was actually ridiculous enough to leave himself a note to have sex with my wife, I wrote down the time. It wasn't hard to follow him out of his apartment, and given the current circumstances, I don't think it's too hard to guess what the result of that trip was.