Sun sneaked through blinds. Eyes shut tight. Not quite ready to open.
Betty Malone wanted to revel in memories of the great sex she and Frank, her husband of forty years, had last night. At his insistence, for God’s sake. She practically had to seduce him before they did it anymore; was on the verge of suggesting those little blue pills the girls talked about, when out of nowhere he became amorous. And it was great. No. . .wonderful. No. . .Fan—fargin’—tastic!
Fingers crept along the sheets searching for her mate. They groped to where Frank could be found most early mornings except on golf days or scheduled surgery. She touched the edge of his pillow but no Frank.
Turning her head, she called his name. At the same time she saw an envelope lying on top of the pillow. Never like Frank to leave a note but how sweet is this? A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth and she sat up. The sheet slipped down and there she was. Naked. Betty, you’re such a slut. Where oh where is your nightie, you naughty girl. A heap of green satin lay on the floor next to the bed, evidence of last night’s pleasure.
With care, one long polished nail sliced through the envelope. The nail snagged on an edge and broke. “Shit.” Nothing was going to spoil the moment because this was the first letter from Frank in all the years of togetherness and she planned to keep it. She withdrew the letter.
Stumbling off the bed, letter clutched in her hand, she groped for reading glasses, found them, dropped them, on hands and knees patting the carpet, found them again. Naked on the floor, she read:
“Dear Betty, It’s not you. It’s me. I have been uncomfortable in my own skin for a long time and have decided I must make a change in my life. I sold my half of the practice to George. You, dear Betty, are well taken care of. Call Bruce Bradley. He has all the papers, investments, everything you will need to live in comfort. The house is yours. Last but not least, I signed my portion of divorce papers so whenever you want to, sign yours. Bruce will take care of it.”
Betty leapt up—made it to the toilet and retched. Foul taste in her mouth, she returned to the bedroom and stared down at the despicable letter. “Oh God. What am I going to do?” No answer in the silent room. “Divorce,” Betty shouted to the empty house. “People like us, we don’t divorce, you stupid ..” Tears streaming, she pounded her chest with the letter, crumpled it into a ball and flung it across the room.
Dear readers: Your comments and critique are welcome. This is from a published book, my first with Vanillla Heart Publishing but keep in mind, writers learn every time constructive critique is given.
Thank you for stopping by to read this first chapter- compliments of WEWRIWA-a community of writers.