Short Story: The Only Thing Worse Than a Cheating Husband…

Something short and silly for you guys.  Inspired by a story I heard on the radio this morning.

“The Only Thing Worse Than a Cheating Husband…”

You’ve gotta get down here…

I tucked a stray auburn curl behind my ear and traced my finger around the outline of my lips, tidying my lipstick.  It had taken three tries, but my smoky eye makeup was perfect.  I dabbed a touch of gloss to my lower lip, then snapped the compact mirror closed.

It was not a high-class bar.  Just a neighbourhood joint tucked between a hair salon and a convenience store, part of a small strip mall.  Blinds sliced the light from inside into narrow stripes.

I got out of the car, locked it, and tottered inside as fast as I dared in these killer heels.  Blood red satin with glittery red and silver sequin detailing.  Steel heel spikes.  They made me look like as ass-kicker, but they were just pinching off the circulation to my toes.

Inside, the bar was warm and dim.  The jukebox was just loud enough that you couldn’t hear the conversation at the neighbouring table, but you could talk to your friend just fine.  Four men gathered around the battered pool table, gripping long, slender cues.  One of them bent over to line up his shot, but his gaze darted over to me instead, making a slow path up my legs, taking in the short, tight skirt of my dress, the neckline draped over the full swell of my breasts, and on up to my face.  He winked, cocked his cue, and shot.  Sunk two balls.

Maybe later.

I wandered over to the bar, struggling to stay graceful in the heels.  Judging from the number of men suddenly distracted from their conversations to follow my ass across the floor, I was succeeding.  I ordered a vodka cranberry, tipped the bartender, and perched on a barstool to survey the bar.

Ah, there he was.  Leaning closer and closer to a poor woman who kept leaning away.  She was just about falling off of her chair.  I didn’t blame her.  He looked so greasy.

Finally, she managed to escape, darting across the bar to the ladies’ room.

I scooped up my tumbler and sauntered across the bar.  His alcohol-glazed eyes immediately locked on me, but his gaze didn’t make it any higher than my breasts.  I parked my butt on the edge of the table and leaned in.  Sour beer breath wafted over me as he grinned, and I resisted the urge to vomit.  No wonder that woman was so desperate to get away.

“Well, hi there,” I purred, stroking his upper arm.

“Hi.”  His hand was already on my knee, creeping up my thigh.  His left hand.  The one with the gold wedding band on it.

“Oh, is that a wedding band I see?”

He shook his head, tipping his body to the side before he settled back in his chair again.  “Nah, don’t worry about it.  The dumb broad’s at home.”

I tilted my head.  “Actually,” I said, my voice chilling, “the dumb broad’s right here, and she wants a divorce.”

I pushed away from the table and sauntered over to the pool players.  The one who’d winked at me was chuckling.  “Hey, Tony, thanks for the tip.  I’d figured he’s been trying to cheat.”

“No problem.  I didn’t even recognize you.”  He leaned on his cue.  “You look good.”

“Thanks.  The only thing worse than a cheating husband is knowing no one else wants him.”

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