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Authors: Jennifer Crusie
Tags: FICTION / Short Stories
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important, don’t you think it isn’t, don’t you go making fun of me because I’m just a hairdresser because there’s no such thing as just a hairdresser, Ronnie. I listen to my clients, and I help them work out their problems, and I send them out of the shop looking real good, and there’s nothing better for a woman’s soul than looking real good. I do a hell of a lot more for people than any damn bank teller, I can tell you that.
And that’s not the only thing I can see now because now I can also see what a son of a bitch you are for leaving me. I’m middle-aged, too, damn it, and I’m not going around Lake Huron with bank tellers, am I? No, I am not. I am doing my job as your wife, which I have to tell you for the past couple of years has not been that much of a picnic, Ronnie, and if you had any kind of human being in you, you wouldn’t be doing that either. You think it’s tough being a middle-aged man? You try being a middle-aged woman who’s a D-cup. Gravity is a sin, Ronnie, it really is. I look in the mirror, and it’s like my whole body’s melting right off my bones. I can’t hardly believe it because I sure don’t feel old, but there it is in the mirror. And you’re no picture yourself, Ronnie, but all you do is slap your flab and say, “Just that much more of me to love, Debbie, honey,” and I swear, sometimes I just want to say, “I don’t need any more of you to love, Ronnie. I’ve got more of you to love than I want right now.”
But I never say that, Ronnie, because you’re my goddamned husband, and it’s till death do us part even if it means I probably never will find out about some of that stuff Darrin was talking about, and even if I have been sort of enjoying myself since you left. I got up about three one night when I couldn’t sleep and turned on the TV and watched Harrison Ford blow something up, and it was really nice, not having to listen to you explain things. And I had Cheetos and Diet Coke for dinner two nights ago, which is not something I want to do a lot, but it was pretty good just the same. And I’m liking not listening to you snort all night and not having to hear about how the Bengals are a great team every blessed minute. In fact, if it wasn’t for Barbara, I’d be glad you were in Lake Huron. But I don’t want to talk about that now because mostly I want to talk about what a son of a bitch you are. Which reminds me, I want you to stop calling me a dumb bitch. I know you think it’s cute or something, slapping me on the butt and telling me I’m a dumb bitch when I make a mistake, and I used to think it was cute, too, but I don’t anymore, and to tell you the truth, Ronnie, I don’t know why I ever did. So don’t do that anymore, goddammit. I am not a dumb bitch.
That’s what I told Darla this morning after church when she stopped by to see if I was all right and I showed her this letter. And she said, “Damn right,” even though she was a little upset that I’m drinking so much and writing you at all. But she said if I have to write you like this to put in that she called Lorena Bobbitt and sent her plane fare to Mackinac so you better brace yourself. She also says to tell you that she sent Lorena a magnifying glass to help her work once she finds you, but that’s just Darla for you. She also says that I should write “Ronnie Luterbein, I hope the world screws you good because I sure as hell never will again,” but I don’t know about that. She also said some other stuff, but then Darrin Mueller came over to mow the grass before football practice even though you just mowed it last week before you left, but I said, “That’s sweet, Darrin,” because I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. And he said, “Glad to do it for you, Debbie,” and Darla sort of snorted but he didn’t hear.
And then Darrin went out to get the mower, and Darla said, “That man is after your butt, which normally I would be against but considering the sorry mess your
And that’s not the only thing I can see now because now I can also see what a son of a bitch you are for leaving me. I’m middle-aged, too, damn it, and I’m not going around Lake Huron with bank tellers, am I? No, I am not. I am doing my job as your wife, which I have to tell you for the past couple of years has not been that much of a picnic, Ronnie, and if you had any kind of human being in you, you wouldn’t be doing that either. You think it’s tough being a middle-aged man? You try being a middle-aged woman who’s a D-cup. Gravity is a sin, Ronnie, it really is. I look in the mirror, and it’s like my whole body’s melting right off my bones. I can’t hardly believe it because I sure don’t feel old, but there it is in the mirror. And you’re no picture yourself, Ronnie, but all you do is slap your flab and say, “Just that much more of me to love, Debbie, honey,” and I swear, sometimes I just want to say, “I don’t need any more of you to love, Ronnie. I’ve got more of you to love than I want right now.”
But I never say that, Ronnie, because you’re my goddamned husband, and it’s till death do us part even if it means I probably never will find out about some of that stuff Darrin was talking about, and even if I have been sort of enjoying myself since you left. I got up about three one night when I couldn’t sleep and turned on the TV and watched Harrison Ford blow something up, and it was really nice, not having to listen to you explain things. And I had Cheetos and Diet Coke for dinner two nights ago, which is not something I want to do a lot, but it was pretty good just the same. And I’m liking not listening to you snort all night and not having to hear about how the Bengals are a great team every blessed minute. In fact, if it wasn’t for Barbara, I’d be glad you were in Lake Huron. But I don’t want to talk about that now because mostly I want to talk about what a son of a bitch you are. Which reminds me, I want you to stop calling me a dumb bitch. I know you think it’s cute or something, slapping me on the butt and telling me I’m a dumb bitch when I make a mistake, and I used to think it was cute, too, but I don’t anymore, and to tell you the truth, Ronnie, I don’t know why I ever did. So don’t do that anymore, goddammit. I am not a dumb bitch.
That’s what I told Darla this morning after church when she stopped by to see if I was all right and I showed her this letter. And she said, “Damn right,” even though she was a little upset that I’m drinking so much and writing you at all. But she said if I have to write you like this to put in that she called Lorena Bobbitt and sent her plane fare to Mackinac so you better brace yourself. She also says to tell you that she sent Lorena a magnifying glass to help her work once she finds you, but that’s just Darla for you. She also says that I should write “Ronnie Luterbein, I hope the world screws you good because I sure as hell never will again,” but I don’t know about that. She also said some other stuff, but then Darrin Mueller came over to mow the grass before football practice even though you just mowed it last week before you left, but I said, “That’s sweet, Darrin,” because I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. And he said, “Glad to do it for you, Debbie,” and Darla sort of snorted but he didn’t hear.
And then Darrin went out to get the mower, and Darla said, “That man is after your butt, which normally I would be against but considering the sorry mess your
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