‘Other Women’ by Nicholas Montemarano
|February 13, 2013|
Black Spot I, Wassily Kandinsky, 1912
From Five Chapters:
It had to be their son.
That was my first thought when Peter called early that cold March morning to say that there was an emergency and could I come over right away.
Before I could say yes, I’d be right there, he said, “We’re in the middle of a crisis here,” and that’s how I knew—that word, crisis, which I associate more with adults than children—that he was talking about him and Diana.
“I’ve been having an affair,” he told me.
“Okay, wow, okay,” I said, trying to sound and be calm.
“I told Diana, and she’s a mess, and Yo is crying, and we need help.”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes,” I said.
I’d said yes without knowing what day it was, what time Michael was teaching, and who was going to bring Emma to school.
Emma was still sleeping in bed beside Michael, who was prepping class, notes on his lap, reading glasses on the edge of his nose. He’d been teaching for five years—he would come up for tenure the following spring—but still got nervous before class. The location of his glasses made him look older than he was—he was thirty-eight then, and I was forty—and I wanted him to push them up on his nose.
I walked quietly to his side of the bed and whispered that Peter and Diana were in trouble and I needed to go over to their house.
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Penny Goring & Rauan Klassnik jst spk, woa
words or pics, it’s all the same to me, i don’t draw lines. my exes mum, after reading a poem of mine, he told me she sed to him: ‘someone needs to get her to stop. will she ever draw the line?’ but i won’t. because i don’t want to. if something happened to me it is mine. i can do what i like with it.
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The joke of it is,” Henry kept saying, “the joke is that there’s nothing to leave, nothing at all. No money. Not in any direction. I used up most of the capital year ago. What’s left will nicely do my lifetime.”
Two cars raced past me when I was walking home tonight. One tried to pass the other but couldn't, compensating back and forth too much before swerving towards some cars stopped at an intersection. There was screeching, then a loud smashing sound.
Beyond the backyard, there is a small forest; beyond the forest, a large, freshwater lake. Every day just before sunset, I step out of my house to walk through the cedars, by the waters gleaming gold and amber in the fading sunlight. When I’m on the edge of the lake, I turn and look back at the house. I live here alone. At night when it is dark outside and I’m working on my stories, I feel lonely. I think of the Sierra Nevada whose upper ridge rises softly behind the house.