CFN – She had a tragic yet beautiful face for someone so young. She’d been a waitress. A real waitress, not someone that had simply worked as one to get by. She had that special quality that born waitresses have, like prostitutes. She could put someone at ease while being dark,evil and only caring about what she wanted. She had an odd chiseled beauty and a black heart.
He had been a simple pot head. Mellow, smiling, happy, but mostly as addicted to her as much as he was to toking up after a long commute from work. He was happy coming up and turning over his cheque to “Wifey” and spending his time in the cocoon of their lively little home.
The home was like herself. Deceptive. On the outside it looked like many others in the shabbier end of town, but on the inside the detail to making a special place could be seen. The colors chosen, the extras added. The appliances matching the walls and color scheme down to the blender on the long kitchen counter.
The thing is she grew bored of being devoted to. There was a side to her that liked to fight and loved to win; but when her “Hubby” loved her to the point of being no challenge, and barely there once he got fried it got to be boring.
Breaking up would be a problem. Shared house, shared assets, palimony, settlements, visitation rights, the dog, the cat, the kid, the turtle, the hockey memorabilia.
When he was arrested we all talked. We gossiped. Some of us knew her better than others. I even had hit on her and said that they’d never last, but who would think it would end the way it did?
She’d found her guy, not a simple devoted skinny pot head, but a more manly man. Someone she could still control, but someone she could also share more of a life with; that had passions she shared; someone that she’d want to take her so badly that she’d have his baby shortly thereafter.
They started hanging around together and this frightened her hubby; he could feel her distance, feel the jealousy building up as she spent more and more time with this new guy, sometimes in their home even, but not as much as that night when she had him arrested and locked out of her life forever. She’d even called me to borrow boxes to pack up his stuff. You could hear the absolute joy in her voice.
We three guys pulled back from her. Our scrotum’s pulled in tight as we could smell the man killer. The life killer. The kind of women that would leave no skin on the bones by the time she was done.
Why get a lawyer? Why share what he’d contributed when you could have him locked away in prison. It was as easy as picking up the phone and calling the police after throwing a beer bottle at a window. It was that easy. And then just empty him from the home and dump his stuff on the lawn for his family or neighbors to take away.
And he was gone. Locked away in a jail, surrounded by many who being a bitch for might not be as bad as the bitch he was for her. One nightmare over as another begun, and his life changed forever.
This is part of a sketch I wrote for an early edition of Dirty Town Under a Crooked Bridge. It is a work of fiction inspired of course from the sketches I wrote while living here in Cornwall Ontario.