Raging Rhonda wears pearls.
She has since she was old enough to put those things on. Does she check her privilege? Every day. Every day in the mirror she revels in it, not just in the wealth that has followed her like a silk train all these years, but the fine cheekbones, and the blond hair, the startling eyes, the cream-soft complexion. Her sharp mind. Her privilege is in her genes, in the bloodline – yes, yes, the pedigree – as much as it is in her bank account.
She fights though.
She fights for it.
She remembers the days when things got shaky. Risky investments; losses, loose spending.
And she married Andy. And Andy, he liked the best of things too. That was why he married Rhonda, because he could see the bones of breeding, as well as the designer dresses, and the gold-backing that shone behind those.
Andy. Andy. And where are you now? His room is empty, tidy, sterile. Last slept in maybe days ago – a text or two, a promise, an airy ‘a few more days, complications, some things to sort out’ – and the steps between that room and her room…? When had that happened?
Well, the tower seemed as if it might fall. Back then. Andy was helpless, was hopeless. Clung to her – or at least to her bank account. But Rhonda handled it, Rhonda knew how. She built that new tower, and rebuilt its foundations every day, adding new ones, signing them up, shining a torch of promises. Delivered – as she tells herself – always delivered. Until the day when they’re not.
And then she’ll try to walk away.
For fooling a fool? Or two? Or ten? Or five hundred?
There’s an expiry date. But she won’t think.
She’ll hear Andy come in, and she’ll know where he’s really been. And if she has the energy, she’ll scream at him, confront him, remind him. Because without her he’s Andy-Nothing, Andy-Nobody; and Sweet-Little-Bit-On-The-Side isn’t going to want to stick around to get herself no second helpings of that dish. So. Watch your step there, Andy, watch who you tread on and how hard. Or, if she doesn’t have the energy, she’ll just watch him coming in, glass of wine in hand, eyes frosty, hair perfectly in place. Her eyes will freeze him as he walks up the stairs.
She wishes she could still hear the promises: I’m going to make it right between us. I’ll take you away, we’ll have the time of our lives, I’ll heal everything I’ve broken, I’ll take you to Paris, to Madrid, to Mexico, to Prague…. LA…. Tokyo. So grandiose she might be able to believe it. Just the two of us. Like old times. But he doesn’t make those promises anymore.
It doesn’t matter. She will deliver. She always will.
The sunset slides down the walls as she takes another sip.
Picture credit/discredit: author's own work