”Determinedly, I slammed the car door shut and sauntered hesitantly toward the small detached house where I had lived with my wife for a good two years. The closer I got to the house, the more resolute my steps became. This was the night I would reclaim my life.
Through the lit living room window, I saw her making preparations for dinner. The table was covered with a cream-colored damask tablecloth; the silverware and crystal glasses awaited their users. She simply wouldn’t do it for anything less. And this was just a normal weekday. One had to set ”little highlights” in everyday life, she always used to say. To me, it was all pure arrogance and snobbery.
I was supposedly away on a business trip.
Through the window, I was looking in, temper rising, a voyeur at the house I was paying for. Knowing her little secret indiscretions. Her cold shoulder of intimacy was nothing but a failing echo of excuses, ending with a shattered glass or crying for sympathy. Her long slender legs spoke volumes in a tight-fitting dress with garters as she lit black candles, as if she was expecting a soon to be frequenter. The lit match followed her confidence around the room as she lit several incense sticks. ”She doesn’t know me at all.” The tapers caused shadows on the wall. It was he she was waiting for…her stepson. An arrogant inquisitor. She was no longer innocent; she was astride someone’s tuffet.
It started several weeks ago as she surrendered her throat to her stepson, her esophagus hungering, swallowing his semen, down the pipe of her debauchery as they were making lite of our relationship. Her laughing was an invitation to the cult looking on in a bed full of dark roses as the candles drip black innuendoes. She never bothered with the deadbolt.
Although I was seething with rage, I began to shiver; it was as if an ice-cold hand had clamped around my heart. I took a deep breath. Now was not the time for sentimentality! The decision had been made long ago.
A cold gust of wind tore through my jacket, stroking my skin with the chill of a frozen tomb. Despite the closed windows, even the candles on the living room table flickered; a storm was brewing. Although it was still early evening, the night was already descending upon the city with heavy black wings. In the distance, an owl lamented. The first bolt of lightning flickered across the firmament, and the first drops of rain wetted my face. I almost would have laughed at nature’s dramatic staging, but the intensifying rain urged me to hurry.
I would storm into the living room and drive the unholy couple from my house without many words. Why should I be the one to retreat? I tensed every muscle, mentally preparing myself for the confrontation, when something on the table caught my attention.
The woman with whom I had once shared everything—my life, my money, my house, and not at least my feelings—was leaning intently over an object lying before her. Her lips were moving as if she were whispering something. I pressed as close as possible to the windowpane, only to recoil in horror a moment later. How could she? I had loved her and trusted her. But now, it wasn’t just about her seeking sexual gratification with a younger man. There on the wooden board where she usually chopped vegetables lay a photograph of me. And she was attentively driving pins through the photo deep into the soft wood.
Voodoo!
Of course, I didn’t believe in such hocus-pocus. But the realization that she was apparently convinced of the magic’s effectiveness—and was quite deliberately seeking my life—pierced me like needles in my flesh.
Fine, then. I would play along with this perfidious game. But not in the way she had imagined…” Did you buy the wrong kind of pins again?”
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