She sat staring out the window, distant and detached. Every time our eyes met, she’d look away. The choker desperately clung on to her thin neck. Sometimes she’d glaze at her phone. I was sure, she was waiting for someone. I kept on typing ngshsoebev on my laptop. It was one of those irk days with a myriad vibe and an uncomfortable air wrapped around it.
I looked at the pic on my phone. She was the one. This was the young bimbo who kept my husband out into the late of the night. My mind was a myriad of thoughts. Chains of questions racing through my head. I wondered what she had over me. She was a lean figure of a budding young woman, with mild curves. I, on the hand, true definition of an African woman. Curved and stacked.
I loved my husband like any God-fearing woman would do. His dreams were mine, so were his nightmares. Because I wanted to dedicate my life nurturing the little humans we had brought into this world, I quit my job. Raising triplets would never be a walk in the pack. But it neither crossed my mind, I’d go insane being a mother.
I had noticed how emotionally distraught my husband had become towards me. He came home late in the night, and slept in the guest room. A mere facade of how sorry he was and didn’t want to wake us up. I couldn’t confront him because I doubt I was ready for a back and forth with him. He was the only man I had been with all my life. He was the thread that held me together. The elephant in the room was growing bigger by the day. Eventually I had to do something about it.
So I set up my board. Drew maps and pinned up receipts, and credit card statements. My husband was spending a lot of money on this young woman. Her name, Bella. This demon kept me up at night, I found myself binge eating until the sun was up. Only pretending to be dead asleep when I heard David’s car roll up into the garage.
I made up my mind. I needed to meet this woman tearing my marriage apart. So I set up a fake online profile, using his names and details. I mirrored everything he was for I knew the man since we were kids kissing under trees and holding hands in the woods. I initiated contact and she agreed to meet. I tell her, Java would be exquisite for a Saturday afternoon before the sun downs. Her texts were brief, almost calculated somehow coded.
I had been sitting across her for two hours now. There was innocence written all over her face, with a turd of broken highlighted by the chocker. She was texting, asking why I was taking so long. Her nails were done, while mine had disappeared into my cuticles. Bella was such a beauty, I was already justifying David’s trifling ass. But did she know how to make his mushrooms how he liked them? Did she know how to make his morning coffee or beat his scotch? I’m sure she didn’t. But it didn’t seem to matter anymore.
Suddenly David walks in, picks a latte and just before he walks out, notices the small misfit seated there. He quickly turns and walks towards her. She sat there, icy, distant and cold. What had the world done to this woman? I am sure young boys had forked her heart, and turned cold. Maybe she thought every man who looked her way loved her, only to be torn into pieces and left out in the cold.
My husband was a fixer. He had this constant nudge to fix people, to fix things. He came home with malnourished puppies and sometimes strangers. He was a good person, with an elephant’s heart. He brushed her cheek with the back of his hand. Her lips cracked into a smile. He got up, bent over and pecked her on the forehead. He got some money out of his pocket and placed it on the table then, walked away and never looked back.