Anthony - November 1, 2007
Anthony lay naked in bed, stuffed between the red satin sheets like a bratwurst between two buns. The bedroom had no windows and it was black as pitch. Anthony hated it. It forced him to be alone with his thoughts. He looked at the clock, its faint glowing numbers flickering from being thrown at the wall too many times--4 am. It was a blatant smack in the face. He knew Lynda was cheating on him. He wished he knew with whom, so he could beat the shit out of him.
At some level, it seemed to him that he was possibly being irrational. But he pushed that nagging feeling away, buried it deep down in a pit of anger. That was his mother talking. He knew it, because that's what his father taught him. His father had never made a secret of his many, many mistresses. That's just the way it was. His mother either had to accept it as a fact of life or hit the road. She chose to stay, to raise her sons, to blind herself with a Valium habit, thankful when her husband was home, sitting in the Lazy-boy with a beer, a cigar and a Playboy.
It wasn't really cheating to Anthony when he screwed one of his waitresses in the back room after hours. He was just being a normal guy--just like his dad. The thrill of banging some bitch he barely cared about--tonight was Doreen's lucky turn--far surpassed anything Lynda ever did to him in that bland cave of a bedroom. As he thought about it, it occurred to him that she never did anything to him--it was always him doing it to her. That was part of the problem.
Still, she'd make a good mother and Anthony knew he would have to get her to marry him before he could really do what he wanted. That's why he kept his affairs from her, why he rushed home and was relieved she wasn't there, even though he knew it meant she was probably out with whatever cocksucker she was fucking. And why he jumped in the shower as fast as he could get his pink shirt, black slacks and gold necklace off to wash away the scent of stale cigarettes, beer and dried pussy juice.
He rubbed his eyes, he hated this thinking crap. He threw the covers off of him and went into the bathroom, flipping on the light so he could look in the mirror. His eyes were bloodshot, his dyed black hair tussled and his moustache moist. It never would have occurred to Anthony that framed in the mirror that way, he looked like a breathing mugshot. He always thought he looked fantastic. Besides, he'd never done anything illegal. Once, he'd gotten drunk with some friends and beat the shit out of some faggot. But he considered that a public service.
Anthony examined himself for places that might need more self tanning cream but couldn't find any. Lynda's cat, "Fur-fur"--white, blue-eyed and overweight--came in quietly, startling him as it rubbed against his bare legs. He reached down and stroked her gently, "I guess you want some food, Fatass?"
He opened a can of food and plopped it into a glass dish, leaving it on the kitchen floor for Fatass. He saw headlights moving across the side of the apartment building and recognized the sound of Lynda's car.
Quickly, he shut off the kitchen light and returned to bed. The anger welled up in his chest and spread to his arms and teeth, which ground together reflexively. He wanted to confront her, to make her pay for this blatant disrespect, but he also wanted to know who she was cheating with. Maybe if she thought he was asleep, she would give some clue.
The kitchen door opened, then closed. He could hear Lynda put her purse down on the counter. Take off her jacket. Whisper something to Fatass. He closed his eyes as he heard her approach the bedroom.
She didn't turn on the light. He could hear her take off her sandals and toss them in the direction of the dresser. She took off more clothes and sat on the bed. He could feel her close to him but kept his eyes closed, even though it was far too dark in that room for her to see anything.
He twitched reflexively when he felt her touch the side of his face. She ran her hand along his cheek, then to his hair. He remained still.
Anthony tried to detect any unusual scent. To notice anything strange as Lynda got fully into the bed and pulled the covers over her. She scooted close to him. Though not touching, he could feel her face in front of his, could feel her warm breath.
He opened his eyes and glared into the blackness. Lynda was oblivious, she could see nothing. Not his reddened eyes, not the rage that filled them, not the betrayals they hid.
Anthony could smell the perfume and cheap wine on her.
In the morning, he would beat her ass for it.
Posted by Warren Mann at 1:21 PM
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Comments
This definetely reminds me of someone I know.
Posted by: Adam Saleh at November 3, 2007 10:07 PM
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