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I need to talk to you. Call me.
The nerve…the bloody nerve of him. I ignored it of course. Instead I called Yannick to inform him I wouldn’t be making it into work that day. He refused to hear of it. Therefore, after drinking a triple shot of espresso and making myself semi presentable, I headed to the clinic––which turned out to be a wise decision since it seemed flu season had hit all at once. By the time I made it downstairs, the waiting room was filled wall to wall with at-risk patients, such as children and the elderly.
It was late afternoon when I finally made it out. An ominous, graphite gray sky hung overhead. Fat cumulous clouds pregnant with moisture threatened to unleash a torrent at any minute. Seemed about right, considering my mood.
Somewhere there was a bottle of vodka with my name on it and I was determined to find it. Since I had a strong allergy to red wine, drowning my sorrows in it would’ve only heaped a migraine onto my already basement dwelling spirits.
As I headed to the market down the street, a brisk wind zipped over my skin and a shiver crawled up my spine. I stopped to put on a sweater I always carried in my tote and spotted the Bentley parked across the street.
He stepped out of the car and stood with one hand stuffed into the pocket of his trouser and the other clutching a bouquet of flower, his jacket and tie already discarded. He watched me with a touch of apprehension in his eyes. His anger, I couldn’t fail to notice, was conspicuously absent.
Mine wasn’t however.
I was seething, the pressure between my eyes increasing exponentially with every step he took. When he finally reached me, he stood there without saying a word, thoughtfully examining me like I was one of his bank accounts he couldn’t quite balance. My eyes traveled to the enormous bouquet of black magic roses that he made no move to hand me. I snorted. “What are you doing here?” My prickly demeanor confused him. I could read it on his face.
“I’m your husband. Do I need a reason?”
“You sure have a funny way of showing it,” I spat out, slapping him with the same words he used on me the night before.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You know exactly what it means.”
His eyes fell on the thin platinum band around my finger, following the anxious movements of my fingers tapping the strap of the Balenciaga handbag he’d surprised me with one day when he overheard me complement Shay on hers.
“You didn’t call me,” he stated, his tone neutral, his countenance not giving anything away.
“What a keen mind you have,” the sarcasm dripping off my tongue.
He exhaled loudly, his frustration palpable. “Can we speak?” he said, and scraped his hair back repeatedly. “Here,” he said, handing me the flowers as if they were a cumbersome thing he no longer wanted to carry around.
The nerve…the bloody nerve. Ignoring his outstretched hand with the flower, I walked past him without another glance in his direction. “Some other time. Right now, I have an appointment,” I threw over my shoulder.
An appointment all right––with sweet oblivion.
A beat later, he was at my side again. “An appointment? With whom?” The possessive tone he used ratcheted up my sense of injustice.
I wheeled around. “None of your goddamn business! Sound familiar?”
He jerked back, surprised by the force of my anger. The sky, reflecting what was happening down below, broke open and rained down on us, the wind kicking the heavy downpour sideways had us soaked in minutes. While he was on his heels, I took off down the street. Before I had a chance to get anywhere, a large hand wrapped around my upper arm and spun me around. The flow of people on the sidewalk turned to stare curiously at the scene we were making.
“Slow down, Mrs. Horn. I’d like to have a word with you first,” he drawled in an awful voice. I fought to break free of his grip without success. We both blinked as the water hit our faces, though neither one of us made a move for cover. The bouquet, still in his hand, sagged under the force of the rain coming down. “I…I want to apologize.”
He wouldn’t look at me as he spoke.
“Apologize?” I laughed without a drop of joy. “Last night would’ve been a good time for an apology. We’re closed for business today. Apology not accepted.” I took a few more steps. Moving quickly, he cut me off.
“Okay…okay. I was an asshole to you last night.” His brow furrowed. His eyes, suddenly pleading, captured mine. “Let me make it up to you.”
He went home with another woman and he thought I was going to let him make it up to me? Was I living in an alternate universe where this was acceptable behavior? My mind turned black with rage. “Get the hell out of my way.”
