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Authors: Belinda Austin
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the kitchen. “Good morning,
sweetheart,” I sing.
Traci is eating alone.
The black Mercedes has vanished from the garage, along with
his black heart. Bastard couldn’t even say good morning, good-bye, or how about
spending the day with me. Have a good day, Ronni, would have been nice.
Brad is soon forgiven, however, because four vases of roses are
delivered a couple hours later with a dozen roses in each vase.
Red roses of the heart blooms from one vase.
White roses, like my bed, grow from the second vase.
Yellow roses are for sunshine.
The fourth vase is filled with black roses of the murky
depths.
The note with the red roses reads, For taking advantage
of me .
The note with the black roses reads, For giving me what I
wanted .
The note with the yellow roses reads, You light up my
life.
The note with the white roses reads, Because I am sorry .
None of the notes is signed Love Brad or Lust Brad or Your Brad , or Your Husband Brad , or just plain old Brad .
The notes have no signature whatsoever and the name of the sender is blank, but
of course, my husband sent the roses. Who else but my husband would take
advantage of me or be sorry?
These are the first roses Brad has ever sent me, and I shove
my nose into the murky depths of the black roses, inhaling the rosy scent. He
said last night, “I wondered what you’d smell like, musk or roses? Roses, my
sweet.” My eyes moisten like the dew of a rose. The sweet scent, my sweet scent
according to Brad, is reminiscent of the Sleeping Beauty Sculpture Brad bought
for Traci. A quote from the fairy tale states, And from this slumber shall
you wake when true love's kiss, the spell shall break . My face grows warm at
the memory of all the pleasurable things Brad did to me last night and all the
bold things I did to Brad. A couple must be in love to share such intimacies.
I tenderly fill the vases with fresh water.
“Ouch!” The thorn of a black rose scratches my thumb and I
suck on it, thinking of Brad. How odd that the flowers are from the Austin
airport. Brad must have been in a hurry to get to the hospital for an emergency,
and phoned a flower shop at the airport by mistake. Or perhaps he’s playing
golf? I don’t recall a golf course near the airport.
Brad has not been in one of his nasty moods since Philly. He
once threw the lounger from the patio into the pool when I suggested he might
be bipolar. Seven weeks after Philly and a month of wedded bliss has changed
everything, well nearly a month if you do not count the sex phone mix-up.
There should be trust in marriage. Brad must never think I
am checking up on him.
I nervously bite my lip, giggling, wondering if I dare. Thanking
Brad for the roses is a good excuse to hear his voice, and I cannot wait for
him to come home. He is nicer than before. Perhaps he will not scream at me
about bothering him at work unless it is a true emergency.
His phone rings twice. “Brad? Brad? Are you there?”
There is heavy breathing at his end.
His phone disconnects from my phone.
I ring again and this time the phone rings until it goes
dead.
After one more attempt, I give up.
My husband is a very busy man.
Only…only, the heavy breathing sounded a bit high-pitched,
like a woman.
Chapter 1 6
WIFE
I drink a bottle of wine sipping slowly, and holding dinner
in the oven, waiting for Brad.
Around 8:30, he finally slams the front door and yells, “I’m
home.”
I had planned to fling myself at him but I stand there like an
idiot with hands hanging limp at my sides. There is something different about
my husband or perhaps too familiar—his mocking look has returned and his eyes
are menacing.
Traci hugs my legs and peeks out at her father.
“ Trace acts like she’s frightened of a rabbit jumping
from hole to hole,” he snorts.
Traci runs from behind my skirts, up the stairs, into her
bedroom, and slams the door.
“Don’t call her Trace. Her name is Tra-ci,” I remind him
through gritted teeth.
“I
sweetheart,” I sing.
Traci is eating alone.
The black Mercedes has vanished from the garage, along with
his black heart. Bastard couldn’t even say good morning, good-bye, or how about
spending the day with me. Have a good day, Ronni, would have been nice.
Brad is soon forgiven, however, because four vases of roses are
delivered a couple hours later with a dozen roses in each vase.
Red roses of the heart blooms from one vase.
White roses, like my bed, grow from the second vase.
Yellow roses are for sunshine.
The fourth vase is filled with black roses of the murky
depths.
The note with the red roses reads, For taking advantage
of me .
The note with the black roses reads, For giving me what I
wanted .
The note with the yellow roses reads, You light up my
life.
The note with the white roses reads, Because I am sorry .
None of the notes is signed Love Brad or Lust Brad or Your Brad , or Your Husband Brad , or just plain old Brad .
The notes have no signature whatsoever and the name of the sender is blank, but
of course, my husband sent the roses. Who else but my husband would take
advantage of me or be sorry?
These are the first roses Brad has ever sent me, and I shove
my nose into the murky depths of the black roses, inhaling the rosy scent. He
said last night, “I wondered what you’d smell like, musk or roses? Roses, my
sweet.” My eyes moisten like the dew of a rose. The sweet scent, my sweet scent
according to Brad, is reminiscent of the Sleeping Beauty Sculpture Brad bought
for Traci. A quote from the fairy tale states, And from this slumber shall
you wake when true love's kiss, the spell shall break . My face grows warm at
the memory of all the pleasurable things Brad did to me last night and all the
bold things I did to Brad. A couple must be in love to share such intimacies.
I tenderly fill the vases with fresh water.
“Ouch!” The thorn of a black rose scratches my thumb and I
suck on it, thinking of Brad. How odd that the flowers are from the Austin
airport. Brad must have been in a hurry to get to the hospital for an emergency,
and phoned a flower shop at the airport by mistake. Or perhaps he’s playing
golf? I don’t recall a golf course near the airport.
Brad has not been in one of his nasty moods since Philly. He
once threw the lounger from the patio into the pool when I suggested he might
be bipolar. Seven weeks after Philly and a month of wedded bliss has changed
everything, well nearly a month if you do not count the sex phone mix-up.
There should be trust in marriage. Brad must never think I
am checking up on him.
I nervously bite my lip, giggling, wondering if I dare. Thanking
Brad for the roses is a good excuse to hear his voice, and I cannot wait for
him to come home. He is nicer than before. Perhaps he will not scream at me
about bothering him at work unless it is a true emergency.
His phone rings twice. “Brad? Brad? Are you there?”
There is heavy breathing at his end.
His phone disconnects from my phone.
I ring again and this time the phone rings until it goes
dead.
After one more attempt, I give up.
My husband is a very busy man.
Only…only, the heavy breathing sounded a bit high-pitched,
like a woman.
Chapter 1 6
WIFE
I drink a bottle of wine sipping slowly, and holding dinner
in the oven, waiting for Brad.
Around 8:30, he finally slams the front door and yells, “I’m
home.”
I had planned to fling myself at him but I stand there like an
idiot with hands hanging limp at my sides. There is something different about
my husband or perhaps too familiar—his mocking look has returned and his eyes
are menacing.
Traci hugs my legs and peeks out at her father.
“ Trace acts like she’s frightened of a rabbit jumping
from hole to hole,” he snorts.
Traci runs from behind my skirts, up the stairs, into her
bedroom, and slams the door.
“Don’t call her Trace. Her name is Tra-ci,” I remind him
through gritted teeth.
“I
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