One Too Many

One Too Many
“You’re just like him: a mean drunk and a shitty husband.” Of course she goes there, using my father as a weapon. God rest his dark soul.

“I wasn’t all that drunk. Up by about one too many, ’s all.” My apology sounds rehearsed, but I am more pissed off than drunk. Dizzy almost with anger at that sonofabitch…. The way his eyes trailed over her body as if I wasn’t there. The way he winked at her, his hairy-ass arm brushing against her soft skin.

“Whatever. I’m going to bed.” She takes her elaborate ponytail out of its glittery holder and shakes her head, her back to me. I am stupidly aroused by how round her ass is in these pant things she’s wearing. Black, clingy. I know there are cellulite dimples under all that, but in this moment, I don’t care. I want to put my hands on it. Mine

“Lisa,” I manage. She turns and glares at me. I know this dance well. “I’m sorry if I embarrassed you.” Simple, and almost true. She didn’t seem embarrassed, not over that. She seemed angry I threw the bastard out of the goddamned bar, pissed she couldn't flirt with him.

“Twenty goddamned years of this shit. I’m sick of it, Andy. Just plain sick of it. Jessie…. Even freaking fat-headed Jessie felt sorry for me tonight.” Her voice is shaky, not so calm now.

I take a step to her, hands out. I don’t feel all that drunk. Hell, I felt plenty sober when I grabbed that dickhead by his coat and threw him clear into the gutter. Lisa stands stock still. I can see the few tiny dots of sweat glistening between her boobs. Boobs that cost me a bundle. I’m alright with that. I want her to feel beautiful at forty. I want her to die feeling beautiful, so long as it doesn’t involve some creeper trying to brush up against her in a bloody bar, in front of my face.

“I really am going to bed. You can sleep in the guest room.” I watch her long legs move in those ridiculous heels, suddenly worried that she’d slip and crack her skull on the travertine tile. Another huge check. Because supper parties. Because we must look better and do better than fat-headed Jessie, and Ron from around the corner and whoever will move in next door at the end of the month.

“It’s not me, Lisa. I meant to tell you tonight. I did the tests. Wanted to…needed to know, for me. My sperm’s fine.” She freezes, a movie still of her glorious ass sculpted in black, her glossy hair the color of expensive mahogany. She turns slightly and smiles.

“I wouldn’t have a kid with you if I could.” She slams the door hard enough to make the glass shatter, had it been the cheap kind. But nothing in this house is cheap. Or mine enough to break.

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