S The Good Wife

The Good Wife

The obese woman steps carefully over cobblestones as she makes her way
to the entry of the old building where water ripples down inside the
windows from a space above. Inside the old fashioned building,
whimsical music creates a sense of peace. The music helps soothe her
nerves. She is a nervous wreck. She can think of nothing else but that
her husband is two-timing her with the new woman in his office.
I trusted him. I've always been a good wife. Worked hard to entertain
his business associates when he needed to impress for promotion.

The woman walks slowly through rotating doors that lead to the
phonebooths upstairs. Her face is red and she has heart palpations, she
feels faint. She sits on a bench to collect herself and do the
breathing mantra her doctor taught her.
Slow breathing, must breathe slowly. I must not excite myself. The
doctor said I must be careful.

An ascending escalator transports her to the next floor where she steps
to a bank of telephones. There are plenty of single phones, but she
wants one of the private phone booths to make her call. This level is
not to her liking because several people are moving about.
She decends the few stairs to the secluded mezzanine floor where a
secondary, less used log of telephones are.

There's no one near that booth at the end. I'll be nice and secure
there. No one'll see me or know I'm there.

She does not want anyone to know she is the instigator of the calls she
is about to make. She makes her way past vacant telephones to get to
the end one.
She must stay relaxed to do what she has to do, and not draw attention
to herself.

She finds the space within the booth a squeeze; she is overweight and
has trouble closing the folding doors. The woman pulls her chest up,
holds her breath, and stretches herself tall, to her full five feet two
inches, so she can fit in to the small space. I wouldn't have this
trouble if I could only bounce and wiggle a little bit.
She struggles and maneuvers until the door shuts.

I'll teach them, who do they think they are fooling with here? I had
all his children, five of them. And he does this to me. I'll make him
pay. Her too. I'm well respected in this community and I won't allow
them to jeopardize that standing. Especially after all the work I've
put in. Screw them.

In the booth, she is a little perplexed about how to handle the deed.
Would she contact the woman first or the woman's husband? What is the
best way to go about this.

I knew something was going on but I had no proof. I heard the rumours
but I didn't believe them. He wouldn't do that to me. Would he? But I
found out he did do it to me. One day I saw them going into that new
high-class restaurant at lunch-time, I couldn't believe it. I just
stood there, staring at them. I recovered my senses and hid behind one
of the marble columns until they left.
I followed them to a unit where they laughed as he carried his lover
over the threshold. They had eyes only for each other.

She almost dropped the receiver her hands shook so much. Slow breathe,
calm down.

"Hello, hello." She says through the flimsy organza handkerchief
stretched over the telephone mouthpiece to camouflage her voice. She
has a sweet voice, when she laughs it sounds like a bell pealing at the
back of her voice box. She smiles a quirky smile.

"Lunch, then room number 202, do you remember? I saw you and your
lover." She rasps harshly into the phone. She does wait for the person
on the other end to say anything and hangs up, holding the receiver in
trembling hands.

That will give her something to think about. She might think twice
before causing a scandal in future. Think twice before trying to break
up a perfectly good marriage. But My God, that husband of mine will pay
too; he won't get away with his no-care attitude.
I'll make another call tomorrow and see what happens.

The rotund woman follows the same tracks as she did the day before,
through the opening between the windows of spilling water, through the
rotating doors, into the atmosphere of fanciful music into a world of
peace. She moves up the escalator, down to the mezzanine, to her
phonebooth.
She has the same difficulty getting in as she had yesterday as she
squeezes in. She jiggles up and down just a little so the doors
close.

This is good. This phone's really out of sight and not many people.
I'll be in and out before anyone is the wiser.

She dials the same number as she did yesterday. It seems an eternity
passes and no one answers.

Answer the phone. Answer the phone. You must be home. You can't be
out.

The woman's heart begins to pump harder and faster, painfully pounding
inside her ribcage. Sweat drips from her red bloated face and she
cannot breathe. She drops the phone as she slowly crumples down in the
phonebooth. Her legs tremble and fold beneath her, they will not hold
her up; her oxygen supply is cut off.
Slow breathe. For God's sake, I've got to slow my breathing. This can't
be happening. I don't deserve it. I've always done the right thing.
Slow breathe? Sloow breeaathe. I?can't?breathe?

Her slow breath mantra does not work and she becomes hyperventilated.
There is no one near the phones to see her distress. She is squashed in
on herself like an accordion; she has no strength to straighten her
legs to lift herself up. The air leaks from her lungs, until she stops
breathing. Her face is blue from lack of oxygen and her heart stops.
The phone dangles from the cord. Someone is saying, "Hello? Hello is
anyone there? Who is there? Answer me! Is anyone there? What do you
want?"

The End