Her body's a bunch of soft curves, Charlie. A bunch of hills and valleys. While she rubs the towel back and forth across the back of her shoulders, her boobs bounce—their cherry-red nipples alive.
How about a drink, Charlie? You ain't closed, are you? Christ, I was afraid I'd be too late. Alone? Good. Almost dark in here, only them beer-sign lights on.
No Scotch, just a mug of beer.
No, things ain't so good with me, Charlie. It's a long story. You know how it is with wives, especially jealous ones. Real bitches. They never forget or forgive.
Yeah, that's right. I've been gone for a while. Navy, you know. Two-year deployment on a destroyer, bouncing around in the Mediterranean Sea. Life's a bitch, ain't it? Got seven days leave, though. Not much time. Got to make the best of it.
Beer's nice and cold, Charlie. Give me another—first one went down like nothing. Thanks, Charlie.
Nice place you got here, The Vanishing Point. Laura and me always liked it. Clean. Good food. Cold drinks. See you ain't changed it none. Yeah, I give up Scotch. You got a minute while you check the register? Good. Need to talk to someone.
Plane all the way from San Diego brought a bunch of us guys in. Laura met me at the airport about five-thirty. Some chick, ain't she? I always could pick 'em—hell, you know that. Well, I ain't seen her in a goddamned while, and we didn't get along too good before I left, not after she caught me with that redhead, one of her friends. Alicia. An ex-friend now. But Laura and me, we decided to work things out. You know, give it a try. Even though it was stupid of me to cheat on her.
Anyway, when I get my luggage at the airport, she's there waiting for me, a real blonde, blonde right down to the roots with a shape that'll burn your eyeballs. She's all over me with hugs and kisses. I laugh and think maybe if I'm lucky I'll get seduced right here in the airport on the baggage carousel. I'm thinking, Eddie, your wife's got a new spark. Absence has definitely made her heart grow fonder. And I can't wait till I get her home.
But she wants to see the town. We ain't been out together, like, forever. Man, her silky, red T-dress with a plunging neckline clings to her—lots of cleavage—and hugs her butt like nothing you ever seen. And shows off her killer legs from mid-thigh down.
She drives us to this fancy place out by the lake. I've never been there, but she seems to know all about it. We sit on the deck so we can smell the pine trees all around the lake and see the sun sink behind them. The sky all purple and scarlet. Just like looking at a freakin' picture.
I get a feeling that Laura's not my wife but some sexy, high-class chick I'm playing around with, and she's crazy about me. We sip a couple of martinis and devour rare steaks with a bottle of wine. I don't know where she got her taste for rare steaks—she never liked them before—but I forget it and think, Eddie, your wife's hotter than ever, dude! Freakin' hot.
All the time, she's a couple of drinks ahead of me. Her eyes are lit up. She's in horny mood. Then she takes another sip of wine and asks me this stupid question about did I know any chicks aboard ship. I mean, Charlie, we got Navy chicks now aboard ships that serve right along with guys. I ain't saying it's right or wrong. It's just the way things are, and a guy's got to live with it. We got maybe twenty of them aboard my ship, some of them not bad to look at. Some pretty ugly.
I ask Laura what does she mean did I know any Navy chicks.
Her eyes dart toward me—not horny anymore—but narrow and sharp—and she says she means did I go to bed with any of them.
I know she's thinking about her redheaded ex-friend Alicia.
"Christ," I tell her, "hell no!" I mean, a couple of guys messed around. Bound to happen—you throw guys and chicks aboard the same ship. Buy I didn't mess around at all. None. A guy could find his ass in the brig on bread and water."
And then she wants to know how about when I pulled liberty did I mess around. She knows my battle group's sailing around the Mediterranean—off the shores of Libya and Egypt—and we pull liberty in Barcelona and Palermo. Lot of hot-blooded chicks in Spain and Sicily, Charlie. Olive skin, dark eyes and hair. Boobs and butt that can drive a man wild. They'll gladly do anything money. Not that much money, either.
I’m a little nervous. My knees start to jiggle. I don't know what to make of it, Laura kissing and hugging me, then asking me questions like that. Then I think maybe she's getting pretty drunk and just joking with me. I tell her hell, yes, a lot of guys messed around with them chicks. Lot of them got the clap, too, and gonorrhea, their peckers falling off. But not me. And then I'm thinking, Eddie, you better get your bitch home and show her what kind of man you still are. Before she asks you more questions. Or before she passes out.
Home in the condo, she's in the shower, sobering up a bit, I hope, while I'm unpacking my things in the bedroom. I yell at her where can I put this souvenir pistol I brought home. I bought it off an Arab—a shiny Russian gun with plenty of bullets. I nice little conversation piece to show off. She can't hear me, so she swings open the bathroom door wide, and she's standing naked in front of me, swaying a bit, still a little drunk, drying herself with a big white towel and says I can put the gun and shells in my drawer under my underwear and stuff. Same drawer I've always had. Don't shoot myself.
At the sight of her, my heart jumps and slams into my throat.
Her body's a bunch of soft curves, Charlie. A bunch of hills and valleys. While she rubs the towel back and forth across the back of her shoulders, her boobs bounce—their cherry-red nipples alive. And then my heart, still stuck in my throat, nearly chokes me. She's shaved her pussy, man. Shaved it! The tangle of silky blonde hair I used to gladly lick my way through is gone. It was never like that before.
Gimme another beer, will you, Charlie? I'm talking so goddamned much and so fast, getting all wound up, I'm forgetting my mug is empty. How about you? Good. See you're still drinking that same off-beat rum you always liked. Never could stomach them tropical drinks myself. Never liked that shit.
Hmmm, good cold beer, Charlie. Thanks.
Well, seeing Laura like that standing stark naked in front of me, a feeling I want to bury my face between her hot boobs and jam my cock into her shaved pussy sweeps over me—you now what I mean?
She climbs into the sack first. I shower and by the time I crawl in next to her I'm in a sweat, my hard-on a flagpole. But when I bury her lips with mine, she clenches her mouth shut. And when I run my hand down her belly toward her pussy expecting her to clutch me, moan, and beg me to hurry up, she just lays there, an iceberg that's floated into our bed from the North Atlantic.
Then she rolls away from me, her backside facing me.
What the fuck!
I can't believe it.
"What the hell's wrong?" I yell at her.
Not looking at me, talking at the wall on her side of the bed, she asks if I'm asking her to believe that everyone else played around at sea, but I didn't. I tell her again, "Hell, no I didn't mess around. Just because a lot of guys did, doesn't mean I did, too."
But she doesn't believe me. I lied to her once before, you know. About Alicia.
I lose my head. I lose my patience. I burn up. I sit up in bed. I try to reason with her. I tell her it's a man's nature to get fucked when he can, just like a ship belongs at sea. He's got to have some once in a while. He can't go months at a time without any. I remind her that I'm a First Class Gunners Mate aboard a ship that's in danger night and day, sailing in the most dangerous seas in the world, protecting our country and our fighting men in Afghanistan and Iraq—lots of stress involved. Messing around doesn’t mean a guy doesn't love his wife. I try to laugh now, hoping she's convinced. I pat her tender-like on the ass and tell her she's the only woman in the whole universe that I love.
But she leaps out of bed ands wraps herself in pink, silky negligee that you can see through and leaves her legs bare. I wonder where she got that—I never seen it before.
She marches into the living room. I jump into my robe, belt it, and stalk after her. She pours herself a drink from a decanter marked HERS. There's a second one marked HIS. They're a set, a wedding present from six years ago.
She gulps her drink down and then wants to know if it isn't the same with chicks. They need to get fucked when they can, too. They've got to have some once in a while. It doesn't mean a chick doesn't love her husband. She reminds me that she's a blackjack dealer at a casino, and she meets lots of studs, some of them with lots of money they're willing to spend on a chick. Sometimes it's hard to say no. Even if you're married.
I feel funny inside, Charlie. Like I'm falling apart, and I need a drink. I pour myself a stiff one from the decanter marked HIS and make a face. I expect it to be Scotch because that's what I like—she knows that. I start to say, "What the fuck is—?"
But she wants to know don't I agree with her about chicks. A million pictures flash through my mind—pictures of her fucking another guy. I'm dizzy like a sailor in a rowboat lost at sea in a storm, my little boat rolling and heaving over gigantic waves. "Yes! Yes! Fuck yes!," I tell her. "It's the same with chicks." Then I ask her what the fuck's going on. Is she so drunk tonight she's forgetting how much we mean to each other. Forgetting the good times we've had—she seems to remember all the bad shit.
She throws her blonde head back and laughs. Her nipples make red points under he negligee. She says, yes, she's a little drunk tonight and maybe a little forgetful, but she remembers I cheated on her and she remembers there's something she needs to tell me.
I clench my fists. I know I'm not going to like this.
She tells me she's been having a million laughs with some guy since right after I shipped out for the Mediterranean. She wants a divorce. She wants to marry him. She tells me she planned this whole evening to get even, Charlie—because of her redheaded friend Alicia that I fucked. And a few others she found out about while I was gone.
That's right, Charlie, it was all a plan to get even—her dressing sexy that way, her loving me up, letting me see her naked in the bathroom, then cutting me off when I climbed into the sack with her, making me admit things about what I did when at sea. That joint where we had steaks—it's the same joint her and that asshole she met went to the first time they fucked.
And then she tells me if I don't like it, get the hell out. She'll never tell me who the guy is. And I'll never guess. When the divorce is final and I go back to sea, they got plans to marry and disappear.
Christ, I'm raving mad, Charlie. I'm out of my mind. My hand whips out and slaps her across the face, a wicked backhanded shot. I feel her mouth go soft under my knuckles. She drops to the floor, kicking around, and blood trickles from the corner of her mouth. She's crying and suddenly I'm crying and I'm telling her I'm sorry—I never hit women—never in my life—I'll make it up to her. Just give me a chance. Please give me a chance. But she screams at me to get the fuck out and leave her alone. She buries her face in her hands and sobs.
The sight kills me, Charlie. I mean, I really love her.
I can hardly breathe. I can hardly stand. The deck's rolling under my feet. I feel like I'm being washed overboard in a hurricane, like I'm tumbling over the side of my ship, but I can't grab anything to save myself. And I'm thinking, Why does this have to happen to me? Why me? Lots of guys mess around, but this doesn't happen to them. With shaky hands I pour myself another drink from the HIS decanter.
I make a face.
That's right, Charlie. It tastes like some off-beat rum. Shit I never liked. My forgetful drunken wife—who forgot all about me and her and the good times—forgot what was in my decanter.
This pistol's loaded, Charlie.
The End
