Bad Mommy(49)

Neither of us said a word as she slipped on her shoes and I walked her to the door. She wouldn’t look at me and I wasn’t sure if it was because she was ashamed of what we’d just done, or if she liked it. I wasn’t sure which of those I was either. It was one thing fucking strangers, another a friend of your wife.

“Bye,” she said, stepping outside.

I lifted my hand weakly in response. That’s what I was, wasn’t I? There was no rhyme or reason for doing what I did, except I’d just wanted to. I could have walked into the bedroom I shared with my wife, rolled her over and fucked her with no complaints from her. Jolene was always willing, our sex always great. Instead I stuck my fingers inside of a woman I’d been accusing of stalking my wife, and let her come on me. I rubbed my hands across my face. I could smell her on my fingers. I was the worst piece of shit on the planet.





“You wrote me a poem? No fucking way.” Her hair was up, pulled away from her face so I could see her neck. It was a good neck, one of my favorite necks of all time.

I reached over and squeezed her knee. “I love your foul mouth.”

We were in my car; Jolene called it the boring old man car, mostly because of the color. Our destination was a restaurant in Fremont, somewhere we’d never been. We liked that sort of thing, trying new places, and it was date night. I’d gone all out to impress her—new clothes (for me), flowers (for her), and yes, I’d written her a poem. She read some of the lines out loud.

“Darkness almost claimed me

So close I was it hurt

But you

A fire unparalleled

Saw fit to scald and save me



I owe it all

To You

My Love

My Life

My Everything

So close I was to

Lifeless life

But You

A fire unparalleled

Blazed life into my soul…”

Jolene hated her words. Her reaction to seeing any of her own work reminded me of the Wicked Witch of the West. Meeeeltiiing, I’m meltiiiiiing. Twice a year she had to approve voices for audio books and she just straight out refused to do it. Couldn’t listen to someone read her words, she said. She made me pick them. I quite liked the responsibility of it. I had a radio voice myself.

“It is pretty good, isn’t it?” I said. “I worked on it for days. You know I won a poetry award in high school—actually poetry and short story. I wrote this piece about a spoon. My teacher said I was the most talented she’d ever seen.” When I turned to check her reaction, she was just staring at me.

“What?”

“Nothing,” she said, turning away.

“No, tell me.” I gave her a side glance. She was pissed.

“You just always do this. You do something that’s supposed to be for me, but in the end it feels like it was for you.”

“What do you mean?”

“You wrote me a love letter last year. It was beautiful, all the things you said. But, after I read it, you spent twenty minutes talking about what great handwriting you had.”

I had, I remember being especially pleased with myself. I had the best handwriting I’d ever seen.

“What did you want me to say? I already told you how I felt in the letter. Did you want to discuss that more? If you’re calling me a narcissist, you’re just as guilty for wanting to talk more about yourself.”

“I suppose,” she said, cocking her head. “Or did you tell me the things I want you to feel?”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

She smiled. It was the coldest smile I’d ever seen. No conviction in the eyes.

“Nothing. It doesn’t mean anything at all. By the way, did you see that picture Kelly posted of her new baby on Facebook? Cutest thing I’ve ever seen.”

A sudden change of subject. I had seen it. Full head of dark hair and features like a tiny elf. I was about to comment when what she was doing clicked and I started laughing instead.

“You’re such an ass,” I said. She made the What? face at me, but I could see that she was suppressing her own laughter. She was always on me about how I continually posted baby pictures of myself on Instagram.

“You don’t even post pictures of your daughter,” she’d say. “But, you’re clearly obsessed with your own baby photos.”

Whenever the topic of babies came up I always found a way to talk about how cute I was. Yeah, maybe it was a little strange, but it was also true.

She reached out and rubbed the back of my head.

“It’s okay, narcissism runs deep with this one,” she cooed. I enjoyed her touch so much I didn’t even care that she was making fun of me.

It’s true. I was a little narcissistic. Not to the extreme like some people were, but enough so that when Jolene pointed it out I couldn’t deny it. Who was the real shrink here anyway? And it was better to be a narcissist and have some concept of it, than to tilt toward Psychopathy and have no idea.