Giseisha
Part 1 of 3: Jen
Jen thought something like it’s probably the bitch herself doing all this. Maybe she feels bad for destroying my life, as she looked out the windshield at the cherry tree, though not in so many words.
She was mostly emotion now and her voice croaked when she did, unexpectedly, speak aloud:
“Why did it have to be here? It’s like he told her exactly how to get to me — meeting at the goddamn cherry tree!”
Spit flew onto the steering wheel. More sobs were welling up. She wiped her nose on the back of her hand. A breeze made the cherry blossoms stir and flutter in the sunshine.
“No. Fuck this,” she said, again without knowing she would speak.
“I won’t let her see me break down.”
She opened the door. The early spring breeze was fresh and cool. It felt like the lick of an unwelcome dog. She clasped the top of her shirt closed but had to let go again to lock the car. Jen thought about the papers in her other hand objectively.
Why had she printed out all the woman’s emails? She wasn’t going to court; they weren’t evidence. Did she think she’d need them to refresh her fucking memory? Jen was going to meet the mystery woman in the flesh. She could fill in any goddamn blanks.
Painful or not, memorized or not, her eyes were drawn back to rereading the first line of the first email.
I don’t know how to tell you this but I must…
How melo-fucking-dramatic.
… last summer, your husband met with Kayla Murdoch ….
She wasn’t going to reread that crap again now. But her eyes just couldn’t bear to leave the page without lingering on the stupid email address the woman had made just to ruin her life: BonkLies@gmail.
How the hell did this woman know her pet name for him was Bonk? It’s not like she called him that in public. He must have goddamn told her. What kind of a freak tells his mistress to call him by his wife’s pet name?
She walked with her head down, along the path and over the hill. She didn’t look at the cherry tree where he had proposed but the ground was covered in pink petals making her think of it anyway.
All this did explain why Bonk had been so weird since last summer: going to “the gym’’ three nights a week, from which she couldn’t see much improvement, and all the smarmy little surprises he’d been getting her: flowers, gifts, dinners — as if the money came from anywhere but their joint account.
Despite all that, the months since last summer were miserable. There had been a pervasive sadness over their lives, like a heavy, grimy blanket. They all felt drained and suppressed. There had been no joy at all, no true laughs, and their daughter hadn’t been her usual bubbly, silly, farting, goofy self.
Last summer: nine months ago. Gee, what big shocking revelation could this bitch just have to show her in person today? Hmmm.
And it would be just like Kayla to do some shit like this: the highest drama imaginable.
Bonk, you stupid fucker.
Twelve years… twelve years, after she screwed him over, the fake-boobs-skank shows up and he just can’t keep it in his pants. Jesus.
Jen let go of her shirt and grabbed the object in her pocket.
As upset as she was, Jen, ever practical, thought it prudent to bring some protection along when meeting a mysterious woman in a remote and usually empty park.
Prudent, yes, but there was a pretty big part of Jen that thought it would be a fine idea to taser the shit out of this life wrecker, as long as there was enough charge left over for Bonk.
Any problem could be solved with foresight and by not taking crap.
On the other side of the hill, at the edge of another parking lot, Jen stopped cold.
There was that stupid fucker, Bonk, holding another woman.
Jen’s knees felt weak. Her mind was blank. The only thought she could manage, before she charged at them in a blind rage was
“She drives the exact same car as me.”
To be continued…
