Tequila Makes Her Clothes Fall Off

Shit. Shit. Shitshitshitshitshitshitshit. Shit!

I slip out of bed as quietly as humanly possible. At least until my legs get caught up in the sheet and I land on my back with a loud THUD. Hardwood floors are soooo unnecessary! My mind screamed. I finagle my feet out of the sheets and peered over the top of mattress. He was still snoring. I let out a sigh of relief. I crawl around, looking for my clothes. Shoes, check. Dress, check. Where in God's name are my bra and panties?!

I slowly stand, watching Brad sleep. And listening for any change in his breathing. Or is it Ben? Bob? Oh dear God, not again. I finally find my panties, flung somehow onto a lampshade. Just like in a movie. I give myself an eye roll as I slip my panties on. Now if I could just find my bra . . . Oh. My. God. Seriously?! Somehow, as if by a miracle, or Karma, my bra is wedged under Brad, or Ben, or whatever his name is. I decide it's not worth it since there's an extra in my hotel room.

Speaking of which, I suddenly realize that I have absolutely no idea where I am. As I wiggle back into my dress, I look around and deduce that it's not a hotel room; it's the guy's apartment. I tiptoe out to the hall and glance around - I can't see that he has a family or significant other. He probably told me that last night. I find my purse in a chair in the living room and grab my cell phone. A couple missed calls and several missed text messages. I looked up a number for a cab company but realized before I dialed, again, that I have no idea where I am.

Nice going, slick. I tiptoe to the front door, unlock it as quietly as possible and quickly found out that it could use a smidge of WD-40. I open the door, slipp out and shut it quietly.  I run down the front steps, reach the sidewalk and breathe a sigh of relief. I slip my shoes on and walk a few houses down and dial the cab company. A few minutes later, my savior was driving a yellow car. As long as it's not the "Cash Cab", I'm good.

Back at my hotel, I shower, change clothes and brace myself to check my phone again. I check the voicemail first.

"Hey babe, just checking in. I'm sure you're letting loose a bit after that horrible seminar you had. Just wanted to tell you I love you and I can't wait until you get home. Travel safe."

I. am. the. worst. person. in. the. world. Next I check the text messages. One from Andy wishing me a good morning and several from my boss. The latter was not to wish me a good morning. Suddenly a text message came in from an unknown number. "Yo babe, ya left witout sayin bye. Was hopin 4 a repeet of last nite."

The man can't even spell "repeat". I scratch my head, wondering what I had seen in Brad-Ben-Bob. Oh . . . that's right. A six pack and a nice ass. And Tequila. Lots and lots of Tequila. But I had given him my number? I hadn't done that before. But then, I hadn't done the whole cheating thing in awhile. Not since meeting Andy. Andy was different, he made me want to be a better person. He knew about my history; that I had cheated before. I earned his trust. And in one night I ruined it. The wedding is two months away. I'm not even stressed about it. Everything has been taken care of. All I have to do is look forward to it. I am, right? I am looking forward to it? I want this more than anything, right? I keep finding myself signing my name, with my new last name. I don't feel like a Princess in my wedding gown . . . I feel like a Queen and I love wearing it. I do, right? I hate myself for what I've done.

I call the airport and change my flight. Screw the rest of the seminar and flying home on a packed commuter flight. I pack my bags and check out of the hotel. The war in my head already giving me a migraine. I got another cab, telling him to take me to the airport.  What have I done? Why did I drink the Tequila?? I know what it does to me. And Andy? What about him? What about us? Will he call the wedding off? Will I? Will I even tell him? What he doesn't know won't hurt him. Right? No, it'll eat me up alive. I have to tell him. How? Shitshitshitshitshitshit.

To make matters worse, Brad-Ben-Bob won't stop texting me. I finally tell him to fuck off. Evidently I chose poorly last night since even "fuck off" doesn't seem to sink in. Picked a real winner, didn't I? Loser.

The flight seemed to take forever even though it was only a quick commuter flight of 45 minutes. Another cab ride later and I am home. Andy wouldn't be home from work for another few hours.
 

I walk in the house and started crying. I drag my suitcase up the stairs, loving the carpet as opposed to the hardwood flooring from this morning, and walk into the bedroom.

"What the fuck?!" I exclaim.

The sight before me was nearly more than I could take. Andy was in bed. And so was some blonde chick. On top of him. They scramble to cover themselves up as I just stand there, completely shocked. And angry. I know I had really screwed up and had some explaining to do, but what the hell was this?!

"Um, sweetie . . . hi . . . I thought you were getting home later tonight?" 

The Love That Died

"We met in college - I a Wellesley girl, he a Harvard guy. It was just like it was in the movies. He swept me off my feet. We were married before we graduated. Looking back, we were just children, really. As a graduation gift to my family, I shared my first pregnancy - our daughter, Karen. She was our world, our reason for being. Not long after that, we were blessed with our son, Jackson. Darren was a savvy businessman, loved his job and his family. Our lives were, for us, perfect. We became parents, grandparents, soon to be great-grandparents. Darren was a wonderful man and father and husband. He will be missed by many."

A few tears streamed down my face. I sniffled. I had done it. I took my seat back in the first pew. My kids patted my shoulders, hugged me.

A few other family member got up and spoke of Darren, a few funny stories to try to lighten the mood.

Eventually people began filing out, hugging me and saying how sorry they were for my loss. I had opted for an outdoor service for one reason. My allergies would make sure I was convincing.

Finally it was just myself and the kids. I asked for a moment alone with my husband. They obliged. I waited until they were out of ear shot.

"I loved you. I married you. I bore children for you. I raised them for you. I was a dutiful wife to you. I know you didn't love me the same. I'm not sure when the love left, but it did. So did the respect. You lived a lie. You made my life a lie. In turn, you made me liar; I lied to the kids about you. I always told you that you could tell me anything. If you had just told me, I would have understood. I would have respected you. Don't get me wrong, I still would have been mad, but I would have forgiven you. We could have been so much happier. Instead you lied, you became a sneak, and you thought I didn't know. I knew. I knew about all of it. There would have been no shame had you just told me. Instead I discover from the lawyer that you left part of your estate to him. What am I supposed to tell your children? You bastard. You fucking bastard. Rot in Hell."

I turned to leave, to return to my family. How many of them know? If they know, how long have they known? I don't want their pity. I don't want their sympathy. I don't to see that look in their eyes. I knew he was here. He knew I knew. I could see it in his eyes.

The question remained: How do I tell our children that their parents lives were all a lie?

I remained stoic as I made my way across the cemetery lawn. But now the tears were real.

The Friend in the Mirror

 

I discovered her long ago, when I was just a child. Old enough to have an "imaginary friend" but too young for anyone to believe the truth. It was only after I got to a certain age that I stopped speaking of her to anyone. They said it wasn't "natural" for a kid to have still have an imaginary friend. So now she's my secret and I'm hers. Evidently in her world, it was similar.

She looks just like me. A little different, but we have the same eyes, the same nose, the same dimples when we smile, and the same color hair. Our voices are the same, our mannerisms are mostly the same, and we have the same sense of humor.

She's dirtier than me, but I think it's all from her lifestyle. I find her life so interesting; I would give my left arm some days to switch for just one day; she has the same wish. It has yet to happen as I still have my left arm. But we tell each other everything about our lives; our worlds.

Our worlds are so different. I don't understand why, but she tells me her world's history and it's not quite the same as ours. Many of the same incidents happened in both our worlds but the outcomes were different and a few different incidents, which I guess can greatly influence how our worlds evolved.

I discovered her in my mirror one day; my parents thought my "imaginary" friend was based on my love of Alice in Wonderland and the Wizard of Oz, not to mention my overactive imagination. Over the years as we've gotten older we've had to be careful of meeting up so our families didn't think us crazy and in her case, that she wasn't caught by anyone else.  She says the lawmen in her world are strict concerning behavioral issues that arise.

She's a farmer in her world. I work for the Department of Agriculture. Only a few members of her family have ever chosen to not be a farmer. My sister is a lawyer and my brother is a Chiropractor. Water use is highly restricted in her world, none gets wasted; otherwise you could be punished to the fullest extent. Water is still widely available and while we are in a drought, no one is in danger of being arrested for wasting wasting a drop of water. People have a "station" in life, although they have an ability to leave it if they wish. Nobody has a "station", anyone can choose what they want to be. 

We've discussed the guys I've dated. She wishes she could have dated, but that's not quite how they do things. She's now married and has a baby on the way. I am still waiting to find Mr. Right.

We have no idea how we're able to communicate between our worlds and we speculate there have to be other worlds where we exist, but for some unknown, unexplainable reason, our mirrors connect us. We used to meet up nearly every week; we've become our own best friend. The last time we spoke was six months ago when she was going to tell me the name her and her husband had decided on for their baby. But she was scared someone was watching her and she disappeared in a rush.

Tonight, as usual, I spend a few minutes at my little mirror, hoping she'll come back. Just as I turned it, I saw her. She looks so different.

I grin and greet her with our usual greeting, "Hi me!'

She looks confused as she stares at me. "Is this a trick?"

"No, no of course not." Something's not right. "Do you remember me? I'm you, but from somewhere else." She only vaguely alluded to what her lawmen did to those who had "behavioral" problems, but it usually involved messing with their minds and even erasing their memories. She always told me that if she acted strangely to break the mirror to ensure safety.

"I don't understand. How are you speaking to me through a mirror?"

"We've never known how. I've been so worried about you. Please tell me you and your baby are okay."

Her answer shocked me. "What baby? I don't have a baby."

I broke down in sobs and grabbed the hammer that I always kept near the mirror. "Please forgive me."

"For what? What is going on?"

I don't want to lose my best friend forever. If I swing this hammer I will never get her back. But I don't have her now, this isn't her. If she was in danger before she could wind up that way again and Lord knows what her world will do to her.

I stare at the hammer.

A-Z Challenge: No Longer (Indie Chick Lit Prompt)

The movers are back today. Most of the big stuff went yesterday - the household furniture, the appliances, the patio furniture, the kids' trampoline. Today it's clothes, boxes and the decor.

I watch them as they move to and fro, coming and going. I make sure they are handling the hanging pictures with care. As much as they're getting paid I want to make sure they're doing it right. I don't want anything damaged. The things in this house made it a "home". A home where laughter and love dominated; where family meals were eaten at the table, the kids' art hung on the fridge with pride, where memories were made. This was a safe place. At least it was supposed to be safe. No longer is it safe.

The movers talk as they work, mostly about their lives - what happened at one kid's Little League game, how another one is doing in school; harmless, every day things. I want to brag on my kids, too, but I don't talk to them.

The kids are not here; they are with my parents for the time being until everything is settled. It's a lot for them to go through. Their lives will never be the same. I should be there with them, but I felt I should be watchful of the movers. They are in good hands with my parents, there really is no need to worry. But a mother always worries.

My husband comes in as the movers are finishing up. I feel a twinge as I see him. I know he was sitting in the car, waiting until the movers were nearly finished. He didn't want to be in the house any longer than he needed. He looks tired. So very tired. I know this has taken a real toll on him. Things like this are never easy. He goes through every room in the house to make sure nothing is forgotten. I hear him upstairs opening and closing doors and drawers, ensuring nothing is left behind. I watch him come down the stairs. He hasn't looked at me since the intruder. He repeats the same process downstairs.

"Sir? We've loaded everything up. Is there anything else?"

"No, no that should be everything. I will meet you there."

My husband stands at the kitchen island, across from me, crying silently. I want to tell him everything will be okay but can I really promise that? I walk with him to the front door, watch him lock it, and walk with him to the car. Sitting in the car he looks past me at the house. He sits that way for some time, crying.

 

Oh how I wish he could see me.

A-Z Challenge: Girlfriend

 

I'm always afraid of when guys pick me up and look at me. So many times they don't like me. I'm often called the "runt of the litter". Everyone around me is bigger, prettier, cuter, you name it. My owner calls me cursed as well. Three times someone picked me out. Three times I was brought back. I wasn't wanted and each guy that brought me back was devastated. They wanted me, but someone else didn't. So I had to be brought back.

So when guy number four picked me out of the line-up, I for sure thought he could feel me shaking. Don't pick me, I'm cursed because I'm small. He looks hopeful and has a big grin on his face. I shudder at the thought of making someone else so unhappy. My owner quadruple checks with the guy that he really wants me. He's sure.

My new owner carries me, stares at me saying this is the best day of his life. He finally puts me in his pocket, but keeps patting me every so often.

He keeps talking to himself, repeating the same thing over and over. Messes up then starts again.

Suddenly I hear a woman's voice. She sounds happy. Maybe I won't disappoint her like I've done to so many others. They talk awhile, eat, talk some more.

Finally he makes his move. He asks her a question. THE question. He pulls me out of his pocket, shaking me, and opens my box.

I see her. She looks shocked. I know . . . I just know I'm going back again.

Suddenly she kisses him, asks him if he's sure, he says he is, and she keeps saying "yes" over and over again. He takes me out of the box and puts me on her hand. I fit just right. She looks at me and smiles and calls me beautiful. She almost can't stop looking at me.

I sigh happily. Finally a family of my own. I guess the fourth time's the charm.

A-Z Challenge: Chick Lit Prompt

Taking a break from talking about books to do the Indie Chick Lit writing prompt. Each week this awesome site provides a writing prompt to invite us to open our minds to creating different worlds and link up to share the stories we've created.

You are given a super power for only two hours. What super power is it and what do you do with it?

I've long known that the other gals in the office weren't too fond of me. I don't eat lunch with them and I don't go out after work for drinks. Mostly because I'm not invited. I'm damn good at my job, I know that. I'm pretty much the best in the office. I don't try to show off, I simply do what needs to be done. I'm an educated woman who worked hard to get where I am. I went to college and got my degree and found myself a job. And not just any job - a cush job with benefits and a retirement plan. Not that I thought that made me any better than the next gal in the office. They all landed the same job with the same benefits and retirement plan.

But this morning is different. I'm not sure how, why, or what happened, but it has happened. The only thing I can think of was that I had actually gone to church the yesterday. I stopped going the day she moved away from home. But the past two years have been a but rough; two years with the firm and no one speaks to me, except the lawyers. I went for confession; it's been eight years since my last one. I think that somewhere in my confession I admitted that sometimes I wished I could hear other people's thoughts; specifically the thoughts of my co-workers. Not sure what I was thinking there, except that if I knew the details they won't tell me verbally, maybe I could fix it?

Because since I walked into the office at 8am I've hearing my co-worker's thoughts. And they weren't pretty. Trudy, my secretarial boss, thinks I'm sleeping my way up the ladder. And she had planted that ugly rumor to the rest of the secretary pool. Jen, Amber, and Mary couldn't decide if I was moonlighting as a stripper or a hooker, because I always seem to have money. Melissa, Laura, and Kaylin just know I'm a stuck-up bitch and does I can to show off and brag about my degree. And they all believe me to be a back-stabbing, lying, conniving, arrogant whore. It's easy to know they all agree on that last bit.

The day isn't starting off well and it's only 8:15. I try to do my normal business,  trying not to stare at my evil-minded co-workers, until my boss walked into his office. Jordan Lane is his usual cheerful self, and calls me into his office as he walks by. I grabbed my tablet, legal pad and a pen and scurried into his office. It was hard to not turn around and stare at the co-workers who were suddenly in a tizzy of mental gossiping.

As per the usual morning ritual,  I email him a copy of his schedule for the day while verbalizing it, ask what he'd like for lunch, and ask what he had ready for me to work on. Jordan handed me a stack of folders over a foot tall, apologizing for the workload. I shrug it off saying,  "No worries, Jordan. I will get it done." I was hoping he couldn't see my eyes starting to water as I turned.

"Violet? What's the matter?"

No such luck. "I'm just having an off day, I'm sorry. Trust me, the work will get done."

"I have no doubts there. You and I, we have no secrets. Please, sit down tell me."

I shift from one foot to the other, bite my lower lip.  It would be unprofessional of me to tell. But I do harbor a secret of his, so I know that he trusts me. Plus other than this, I really don't have secrets from Jordan. He literally is the world's best boss. So I sat in the chair opposite him and spilled. Jordan's face got angrier as I went on until I began about hearing her coworkers thoughts.

He put up his hands. "Whoa, Violet. Seriously? Can you hear mine?"

"Yes. Should I ask about Josh or will you tell me over lunch?"

He laughs. "I believe you. And I'll tell you over lunch. I think I'm in love." He laughs some more.

We decide to see how long it lasts before deciding what to do. I'm to keep him updated and continue to do my job as best as I can with my "distraction".

I go back to my clean desk with my disastrous pile from Jordan. By 8:30 the office is a busy hive with people going to and fro and my "IN" basket is getting full as well. Thank God man invented headsets for phones because no one likes a crick in the neck. Every time one of the other secretaries walked by her mental assaults jarred me. This happened a lot as they went back and forth for coffee, copies or the bathroom. My eyes kept trying to involuntarily tear up on me and I was hoping that none of the other secretaries noticed.

When 10am rolled around an eternity later, I noticed a sudden quietness in my head. For a moment I sat there, frozen, waiting for it to come back. Maybe I'd heard all I needed to. Lord knows I heard more than I ever thought possible. And I know now to never ask for such a horrible thing again. I ran into Jordan's office and told him it was over. I also thought of something I could do.

Back at my desk, I opened a new email and began typing. I type up to 90 words per minute and my fingers fly as the words come to me. Once done I decided to wait until later in the day to send it. To make sure I still would. I continued with my work, making headway. Shortly before lunch I thought, to hell with it. I warned Jordan about the email, said I was off to get our lunch, and hit send just before I left. The following email was sent to everyone on my floor:

Dear Co-workers,

I am aware for the entire four years at this firm I have been treated as a leper. I know what you think of me; of what I am, who I am. You are all so far off you might as well be on a different planet. Yes, I do have a college education and a degree that I worked hard for. I was also left with a mountain of debt in student. My college boyfriend maxed out my credit cards and fled, never to be heard from again, leaving me with a second mountain of debt and a damaged credit score. I was hired here at the firm, but as lovely as my paychecks are, they didn't cover my regular living expenses and my debt. Due to my fast typing skills and my education, I have two part-time jobs. I make sure to have my work at the firm done by 5pm because I have another job and I have to be there by 5:30pm, where I work until 11pm. On the weekends I work two twelve hour days. Each job has a purpose (and both are completely legal): the firm pays for my living expenses; the second job pays for my student loans; the third pays for my credit card debt. I am not sleeping with anyone at the firm; in fact, while it's none of your business and also blatantly obvious when you have the truth, I do not have time to have a relationship. Jordan and I are only co-workers who happen to work very well as a team. Shame on you for never speaking to me from day one, even though for four years I have said "good morning/afternoon/evening/night" to you. I have wished you "happy birthday/anniversary/holidays." But you ignore me. I know what all of you are going through. I sit here day after day, doing my job and the only person who has ever bothered to get to know me at all, is my boss, Jordan. I do not need all of you to be my friends, but it would be nice if you would treat me like a human being.

Sincerely,

Violet Taylor

P.S. I also know who has been stealing employee lunches.

When I get back from grabbing lunch, astonished faces greet me. I take the food into Jordan's office and spend a nice quiet hour listening to him talk about Josh, his new love interest. Afterward I finish my work, clear my desk and grab my things to head off to my next job. As I walk past the other secretaries I hear them murmur, "Have a good night."

As the elevator door closes I take a deep breath and feel a weight be lifted off my shoulders. And I smile.

The Empty House

Each week, Indie Chick Lit gives a writing prompt and allows bloggers to link up.

 

You arrive home after a long day of work to an entirely empty home. There are no indents on the carpet, no wine stains–no sign that you or anyone lives there. Write this scene.

 

The drive home was long. Not a lot of traffic, really, just long. Long and windy and wet, which also meant slick. Only means I have to drive that much slower. Can't have myself go sailing off a mountain highway . . . . I suppress the horrid images that push their way to the front of my brain. I shudder at the mere thought. Slow and steady, listen to the radio, and just follow the road.

Commercials come on the radio, so I turn it down. I can't change stations - there aren't any others on the mountain. It's lucky I love country music, I just don't love commercials. I'm reminded as I turn the volume down that the speakers are dying, crackling at me. Mocking me. I feel it. The speakers are mocking me. I change over to a CD and start listening to Eric Church. I turn the music up to cover up the crackling sound of my mocking speakers.

I take my turn off, still going slow. Still wet going and there are usually a lot of deer roaming the highway. The wipers continue their thump-thump thump-thump, Eric Church still serenading me through my crackling, mocking speakers. I can't wait until I get home. Change into my pj's, eat the chicken I bought from Popeye's, maybe read a bit.

 I pull onto my street, looking my for house. Everyone is parked on the street making the small street that much more narrow and parking is hard to find. Yay for me. I find my house and see the driveway is empty. I sigh and pull in and park. I shut off my car and grab my purse, cell phone, dinner and my work stuff and haul my stiff ass out of the car. I fumble with the keys and unlock the front door. I search for the light switch, cursing under my breath. I find it and switch it on.

Nothing. I look back outside and realize that none of the neighbor's lights are on and realize the power must be out.

I drop my things and go to my car for a flashlight. I flip it on and walk back into the house. I swing the flashlight around and see nothing. Nothing but the carpet and the linoleum. Bare walls stare at me in the small beam of the flashlight. I sigh and pick up my things and take them to the kitchen. I open the container of food and grab a piece of chicken and just start eating. It's lukewarm at best, but it still tastes good. I grab some fries and the flashlight and wander around the house. The three bedrooms are just as empty as the front of the house.

I suddenly realize that I'm completely alone in a dark house with only a mini flashlight and a bucket of chicken. The neighborhood isn't the greatest; meth addicts live across the street and there's a pot grower down the way. I almost feel as if I've been robbed but obviously there's nothing to take.

I walk back into the kitchen and grab another piece of chicken; my appetite obviously not hurt by my sudden fear of being alone. Either that or I'm eating my feelings. I search one handed in my purse for my cell phone. I find it and dial.

"What's up?"

"Hey, I thought you'd be here by now. Everything okay?" I ask.

"Wound up with a flat tire. I should be there in about twenty minutes, though. You're not eating all that chicken without me, are you?" I hear the teasing in his voice over the roar that is his truck.

"Me? No, never. Although I'm starving so I've just started my second piece. Sorry I didn't wait for you. Also, the power is out."

"No worries, babe. I'll see you in a little bit."

"Drive safe, babe." I press "end" and grab a couple fries and continue with my piece of chicken.

I look up and realize that I left the front door wide open. Smart. The feeling of being utterly stupid crashes over me and I think to myself, I've seen this movie. I'm pretty sure it didn't end well. I close the door and lock it. I have a feeling this will be the longest twenty minutes of my life.

Twenty minutes (which felt like an eternity) later I hear the truck pull up. I open the front door to see him get out of the truck. He reaches back in and pulls out a large lantern and two sleeping bags. He sees the look on my face and said, "What? I called Tom about work stuff and he told me the power was out. I dug through the trailer to find our sleeping bags and my lantern and a couple other things. Where's the chicken? I'm hungry."

He smiles, kisses me, and walks into the house. We lay out the sleeping bags and grab the food for a living room picnic dinner of Popeye's chicken, fries, and beans lit by the lantern. The couple of other things? He'd managed to find two pillows, his portable DVD player, and had rented a movie. A comedy. Smart man.

Unloading the trailer of all of our belongings would have to wait until tomorrow.