Aunt Carol grimaced at the monster. At all that unfolded, polychromatic laundry piled on her couch. Her stomach churned with worry. There was just so much, so much, to do, and not enough getting done. He’d feel so disappointed in her. Should she tackle the monster right now, or should she go grocery shopping?
Her husband, Harold, would be dragging his tired ass through the door after a hard day of work, in just about a half hour. He’d be hungry. So she needed to start dinner soon. Better go to the grocery store, was her snap decision.
But then she stopped and reconsidered. Her poor husband would be coming home to an empty house. He’d feel lonely, and that’s not cool. The kids were all involved in extracurricular activities at school.
Speaking of extracurricular activities, she wondered just exactly what Harold was up to these days. He seemed less attentive to her lately, no matter how hard she tried to please him. And he was spending more time at the bar. Would he? Could he? Did he dare?
No. Impossible. She refused to entertain the idea that this dashing, charming, charismatic husband of hers might be having an affair. He loved her too much. Or so he always said, with his syrupy, reassuring voice.
But for the past several weeks the suspicion kept nagging, like a cold, windy draft rattling at her heart. And it had been whispering tattletale innuendos in her brain. She kept hushing it, and shoving the worry away. But it kept returning, wuthering along with all its sad, chilly auguries.
An idea suddenly flashed in her head. An idea so bizarre, it stopped her in mid-stride as she headed for the front door with her car keys in hand. She changed course and settled down in the easy chair by the door, to mull it over for a minute.
She giggled. No, it was too damn crazy. Huh-uh. But then again, she had a reputation for doing off-the-wall things. No one would think much of it, coming from her. She could get away with it. So, hmmmm.
Uncle Harold arrived home to an empty house, looking worn out from a hard day at work. He noticed there was no car in the garage. And when he dragged himself through the door, he realized there was no dinner cooking. She must be grocery shopping, he surmised. His heart skipped a beat. Suddenly he didn’t look quite so tired.
He inspected the entire house, searching for any sign of his spouse or anyone else. And then he trotted over to the phone. He picked it up and dialed. With a gleeful chortle he said:
“Hey babe, watcha up to?!
“Oh really? That sounds sexy. I just wanted to tell you that I’m feeling pretty hot for you, right now.
“Nah, don’t worry, the bitch is out shopping.
“How ’bout this . . . after dinner I’ll tell her I’m tired and need to unwind and relax at the bar. But instead I’ll head over to your house.
“Nah, she never checks up on me at the bar. She hates bars.”
Some movement caught Harold’s eye. He glanced over at the couch and saw a monstrous pile of unfolded laundry begin to levitate.
What the hell?!
Blouses and bras and pants and undershorts, in all assorted colors, magically lifted up, up, up into the air, then dropped one-by-one down upon the floor in front of the couch. And as these multifarious articles of clothing returned to earth by force of gravity, a singular figure remained upright, by force of something much more powerful.
It was the figure of his wife, Carol, with a pink sock draped over her forehead.
“You son-of-a-bitch!” Carol growled through an umbrageous glare.
And that is how my Aunt Carol’s divorce began.