It all started, soon after dinner had been over with, when Clara told me she had destroyed the Nick tape. I shouldn't have gotten as pissed as I did, but I had wanted to watch it again. It was not only exciting to watch, it was a weird sort of educational film for me. Nick was teaching me new tricks. And giving me new erections.
"Why the f*ck did you do that?" I threw at her, suddenly boiling inside my skull, as if saying the words had ignited my mind.
"I thought it over and decided I didn't think it was a good idea to keep it around. What if Nick's wife got her hands on it? Huh? You know how she's always snooping through our closets and drawers. While she wouldn't see my face on the film, she would surely recognize our bedroom!"
The stupidity of her actions, and her having decided for both of us, made me absolutely livid, and weirdly crazy. Foaming at the mouth crazy. We didn't just argue over it, we got to the throwing and breaking things real fast. The more we said, the worse it got. We were on a fast track to splitsville, and for the life of me, I couldn't stop it. Or help myself. I now just wanted to hurt her.
Then my hate for Nick roared out and showed itself. Vehemently. Followed quickly by my hatred of her for cheating with Nick behind my back in the first place. I yelled at her that I knew all about her lying, cheating affair with my so-called friend. I knew she knew I already knew, but I threw it at her anyway, but making her affair seem as cheap and gawdy as I could. With as many curse words tossed in as I come up with.
I yelled at her how I had heard her at the Ramada, ho ho, telling Nick she would only suck him off because yadda, yadda. This little tidbit she didn't know, and it hit her hard. Possibly because I had revealed my clever, snooping, playing detective side to her. I called her a lying, cheating whore cunt, and much, much worse. I was hurt, and angry, and pissed. And totally out of control.
The capper came when I picked up one of her favorite Hummel figurines- -a precious possession her late mother had bought for her--and crashed it through our glass-topped coffee table. I looked down at the array of different type glass, almost chortling away at my cleverness, and when I looked back up to find the target of my uncontrollable rage, I saw her in the bedroom, packing a suitcase.
This took the wind out of my sails--but not fully--and I slumped down on the couch, both wanting to rush to her and ask her forgiveness, but still angry with her. My mind was totally fucked up. I sat there, undecided on any a course of action. Then I watched her, silently, mutely, as she headed toward the front door, a suitcase in each hand. I wanted to call to her, but I was afraid to speak. Afraid of what would pour out of me. My overall anger had subsided greatly, but it was still there, hanging over me like a horrible black cloud . . .
* * * * * *
CLARA WAS GONE, and I just sat there, staring foolishly at the closed door. I couldn't seem to move, and my head was full of thoughts of what would be happening to her within mere hours. I knew she would call Nick, in spite of her feelings for his wife. And Nick would easily, could easily, concoct a story to get out of the house, with his very trusting wife none the wiser.
They would go to a hotel, a motel, a friend's house. Wherever. And be together. The two cheaters in my life. I felt left out, and totally alone. Abandoned by them both. But I still had smoldering embers of anger within me. I looked down at the broken glass, and maniacally screamed out, "Hah! Who needs ya? Ya big dummies!" I would have been happy as a clam to know they had heard me.
I had seen Nick in action, so I knew what he would soon be doing with her, to her, and even for her. The vivid images of them coupling, so feverishly, so wildly, were burned into my brain, as if etched there by some godlike Davinci.
The pictures in my mind could easily be regarded as some strange space alien's unprocessed, and X-rated, DVD film, with my mind acting as the catalyst that brought it to life. In living color, and with motion, and I even had a pause button. I could stop them, Clara and nick, in mid-f*ck as it were, and examine even the blond hairs on her nipples, the twisting and curling, wiry dark hairs of his pubic area. In my mind's eye, I could see it all with crystal clarity.
But for now, all I could do was stare at a closed wooden door . .
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