Flash Fiction Friday: Fuck You, Warren
Catherine looked in the mirror and wondered if the red lipstick was too much. So far from her pale pink, she didn’t look like herself. Pressing her lips together, she pushed them out in a pout. She was turned on looking at her own lips, parting them, letting a tiny sliver of wet tongue peek through.
Red was something she never wore for Warren, not since they’d been married. Not in ten years. He didn’t like it. He didn’t want her to mark him, thought it cheap. That’s probably why he didn’t wear his wedding ring, either. Somehow she’d become the woman in the cardigan and loafers, a perfect bob and tasteful jewelry.
The red was perfect with her new black hair. The mousey brown she’d sported since high school disappeared that afternoon in the stylist’s chair. The dark hair made her pale skin alabaster. Catherine had never felt more powerful. She lifted the tissue to her lips, but instead of wiping the stain off, she blotted, then set the color with powder before applying another coat. She wouldn’t risk it fading.
Stepping away from the mirror and she let her eyes slide down her body. Black lace lingerie, and stilettos. All new. She spritzed perfume on her wrists and dapped it behind her ears. One spray on her décolletage. She blushed as she sprayed the insides of her thighs. Was she really going to do this? She slipped her arms into her slinky black wrap dress and tied the bow, watching her shaking hands in the mirror. Her new manicure sparkling in the bathroom light.
Warren was out tonight, business dinner he’d said. The children were at her parents. There was no one to tell her to stop. No one to tell her she was out of her mind. She slipped her coat on and grabbed her purse. Her heart thumped and her hands were sweaty.
She wouldn’t let herself think about what she was doing as she got in her car, pulled out into the driveway and down the road. Would she let him touch her? Her mind intentionally elsewhere as she passed the kids’ school, their church, the restaurant where they loved the brunch. Would she just watch? It was already dark out, the street lights reflecting off the other cars on the expressway, on her exit, and then the lights of downtown buildings took over. The diamond in her bridal set flashed, drew her eye. She refused to feel guilty.
She’d spent enough time miserable, when she stumbled upon the emails, the trail that lead to the Ashley Madison account, the texts. She didn’t know what was worse, that he was cheating, or that he was lying. The dinners, and business trips, and coworkers that were obviously a ruse destroyed her. Her stomach ached at the thought of him with another woman, but her blood boiled when she thought of the pity she’d felt for him as he missed yet another school or family event because of a work obligation, or the compassion she felt for his long hours and late nights. She’d defended him, to everyone. Ignored all their looks, all their questions. “Surely he didn’t have to work late every night.” They’d say, suspicious. She’d fought for him. She wouldn’t again.
She parked in the underground garage, her heel clicks echoing in the vast space. She knew she should be nervous. What kind of woman did this? But she wasn’t. She didn’t recognize her reflection in the elevator’s mirrored interior, but she’d never felt more like herself.
The doors opened to reveal the tastefully modern hallway. She knew where he’d be. It was all arranged. One message was all it took. A half dozen flirty emails sealed the deal. The plush carpet muffled her footfalls as she walked toward his room, their room. The slide lock was trapped between the door and the jam, holding it open a crack, just as they’d planned. She pushed the door open with her foot, freed the slide lock with the inside of her arm, and let the door close behind her with a snick.
“You’re beautiful,” he said. She knew she looked good, she tried not to dwell on the fact that it took all this for someone to notice.
The semi dark of the room hid details, but she could see him well enough. Dark chest hair against his olive skin. Broad shoulders, time softened torso, long legs. The arrangement had been that he would be naked, and he was. His excitement at the situation obvious. He moved to stand. Catherine didn’t want to speak. Her voice would give her away, but she needed to do what she came here to do.
“Don’t move, or I’ll leave.” Her voice breathier than usual. Sensual.
Confusion crossed his face, but he sat back. Catherine wondered what kind of man would do that. A tiny bit of vomit crept up her throat. Taking a deep breath she set her bag down on the dresser and pulled the sash of her dress loose. His head moved, she imagined his gaze on her hands at the knot.
“Don’t be nervous. Come closer, I want to see you.”
Skin crawling, she let the dress fall to the floor.
“Wow,” he hissed.
Her stomach turned. This is what her research, her carefully planning, her physical transformation had come to. All of her work creating this opportunity was a success , he was hers, but revulsion and disappointment sucked the joy from the moment.
She turned slowly, wanted him to take in every inch of her soft skin. She could feel his anticipation humming through the air. He wanted to touch her. He wanted to take her. When was the last time she’d felt this? She bent over to retrieve her bag, her tiny panties revealing the pain she’d suffered at the hands of that masochistic waxer. His sharp intake of breath covering the sound as she freed the item from her purse.
She turned, pointed the pistol at his chest and fired.
“Fuck you, Warren.”