SevenDeadlySinsSeries

  Simmons’s eye’s flick up from his computer screen briefly, “No thanks, I’m right in the middle of a tough chapter.” Immediately his eyes go back to the screen.

  “You sure? You’ve been at it all afternoon,” I say, trying to pry him away.

  This time he doesn’t bother looking up at all, “Positive,” he droans, and his fingers whack away at the keyboard as if the sentence of the century has presented itself.

  I walk out the back door feeling dejected, unwanted, humiliated. The door banged behind me… three times. That’s not good, I think. I’ll need someone to come check that door tomorrow. So I sink into the hot tub just in time for Vagina to start ordering me closer to the jets.

  The following morning finds Simmons sound asleep in the lazy boy recliner in his office. I stand at the doorway again, this time admiring him in slumber. You know, I’ve done a great deal of soul searching since yesterday, and I’ve come to the conclusion that the fact that I’m even considering cheating on my husband makes me a vile and evil woman. I’m on my way to Mass now to beg for forgiveness. But as I stare at Simmons, so exhausted in his chair, I can’t help but wonder to what length’s I’d go to keep him. I study him as I haven’t done in years; those legs are always the first thing to attract my attention. You see I have a short woman complex; I see long legs and get all gooey inside. And Simmons’s are the best I’ve seen, even after all these years, hence why I married him. Well, okay, there were other reasons, for instance the blueness of his eyes, now closed, but knowing they’re underneath those slumbering lids does cause Vagina to wake up. I can’t tell you how long it’s been since I’ve looked at him this way. The sound of my oven timer breaks me from my examination and I glance down at my Timex to note that I have twenty minutes to get into town. I grab the casserole that I’d made late last night for my parish priest and leave to get my dirty, nasty thoughts absolved.

  But something happens on my way home from church that brings an entirely new issue to the forefront. I stop at that light, the one on Chuck Dawley Boulevard that usually just blinks. Today was it’s ‘off’ day, and it’s working. So this guy pulls up beside me, he almost looks familiar but let’s face it I don’t recognize many of the guys Patty and I grew up with. They’re all bald and fat now. In short, I sort of recognize him so I’m staring, and he looks over and smiles at me. He’s in a sexy as hell black BMW and reeks of money. Let’s face it ladies, we’re all turned on by the scent of money. On top of that, he has hair! And it’s gray along the temples giving him that Harrison Ford look. Vagina begs me to let her see, the concept of driving is beyond her. So I explain to her, from his chest up he’s drop dead Superman. Then it occurs to me, ‘mid-life crisis.’ It’s written all over him like spray paint.

  Of course that’s what’s going on here! I pop my palm to my forehead, needing a V-8. Sometimes I swear my head isn’t screwed on tight. I’m having a mid-life crisis! To prove the point that there are some loose nuts and bolts upstairs, my first thought is to wonder if that means I’m going to live to ninety-eight. But that’s what’s going on here and I’m shocked that I didn’t see it before. But what to do about it? Should I go out and buy a new sports car? Dye my hair back to its former color? Oh! I know: a face lift. Yep, that’s what I’m going to do. Get a face lift! With that decided I head home with new purpose.

  A note on the counter from Simmons explains that he’s at Bull’s Bay on the golf course. “Writer’s block, next door whacking some faces into trees.” That is his way of ‘letting go;’ he envisions the faces of people he’s having trouble with on the golf balls. And since his aim has always sucked so terribly bad, he eventually gave up trying to play the game altogether and found that he enjoys just wailing them into the tree line. They would go there either way. I wonder how many times my face has been on one of those balls?

  A note from the illustrious, celebrity novelist Simmons Townsend, I stare at his written excuse doubtfully. His books aren’t that famous, and Simmons is far from a celebrity, but that’s the way I feel, because of course I love the silly man regardless of the fact that he couldn’t match Garanimals if someone held a gun to his head. But last year he’d gotten the call that sent him into motion, and I haven’t seen much of him since. In all fairness, he’d come to me and explained that this was a tremendous opportunity to write a book on one of the most intriguing women alive but if I need anything just say so. He’s like that, my Simmons, always the first to say a thoughtful thing. Even at the time, the words came from his mouth I knew they would never come to fruition, just a sweet hollow sentence. By the time I began to feel neglected he would be so involved in his work that I’d be invisible to him. I knew this because of the fifty odd other times it’s happened. Then, once he completes whatever ‘tremendous opportunity’ he’s working on, it’ll take a few weeks for the bookworms in his brain to settle down and hibernate. Then and only then will his eyes crack open and he’ll notice me again. I suppose he thinks I’ll be there for him this time, when this book is over, as I’ve always been. Only this time the project has taken so much longer than normal. At first I’d grown restless, then confused, angry as hell, and that led to where I am now, severe and concrete depression. Oh I could take interest in this story that has him so captivated, and in the beginnings, pre-Jennifer, Amy and Simmons Junior, I had. I just no longer feel the inclination to read his books. He doesn’t pay attention to me, so I pay no attention to his work. He hurts me, I hurt him. Sad deal but that’s not to say he doesn’t interest me. In my mind he is the professor I always dreamed about, the football star that never glanced in my direction, or the movie actor I once glimpsed at the airport on the way to my sister’s wedding. He is the ultimate drummer and I am his one and only groupie. At least that’s the way I imagined it before he started coming home smelling of another woman’s perfume.

  Over the past ten months he’s been staying out later and later. In the beginning I naively worried about his safety, but as he’d grab his keys off my immaculately polished hall table he would be sure to grin and tell me that he may stay downtown if he worked too late. He’d gotten “Too damned old to drive that bridge late at night,” he claimed, and I’d accepted it. I’d accepted the whole thing hook, line and sinker because just as he expected me to put on my Walmart bathrobe after a hot soak, I expected him never to cheat on me. Years of marriage can trick a person into believing they know someone. But somewhere in the depths of my heart I knew there was a bartendress waiting for him, and after a long bout of denial, suspicion hurled me into action: this action.

  I pour a cup of the coffee I’d made before I left and wander into his office to Google Charleston plastic surgeons. This is a big decision for me; I’m not a vain woman, so I need to make sure I choose just the right doctor. Getting undressed in front of strangers isn’t a day to day adventure for me and I’d like to get an opinion on having these triple D’s perked up as well. I did mention that gravity hadn’t been my friend, didn’t I? But when I move the mouse on his desk, his current working file hasn’t been closed. At first I was headed towards opening Firefox and getting on with my mission, but his words catch my attention. “The Tramp Stamp Club.” What? Isn’t this the exact same club Patty just joined? Is this what he’s been working on? He has me at the title, so I slide my reading glasses down from the top of my head and lean forward to see what I can find out.

  COMING SOON!!!!