After two days the Sheriff finally located your husband’s car. He didn’t make the turn around blind man’s pass and he went into the gully nose first.
“We’re sending a team down to pry his body out of the wreck,” the Sheriff will say. “I should warn you though. Some people in town saw your husband earlier in the day. They say he was with–”
“That whore?” you’ll ask calmly.
The Sheriff will look startled. “You knew.”
Take a tissue and hold it to your nose. It will keep the tears at bay.
“I thought it was just a phase,” tell him. “I thought that when a man reaches my husband’s age, he panics. He creates a fantasy about the man he used to be. He embraces the lie that once upon a time he was bold, without a care for caution. That he was a feared barroom brawler. That he never slept in a bed alone or with a familiar face. That he knew angles, schemes. He’ll focus on five happy minutes enjoyed when he was 23 years-old and in the throes of his illusion those five minutes will stretch to ten or fifteen years, just so he can fill his heart with the longing for this "man I used to be,” enough longing to send him floating out into the night, away from his wife, into the arms of–“
"That whore,” the Sheriff will say. “I should warn you, after she arrived in town and registered her name with my deputy, he did some digging. She has some experience with luring husbands away from home.”
“I know about the will,” tell him. “But it’s useless now. There’s no way they both could have survived that crash, right?”
The Sheriff will look into your eyes. He’ll know plain as day what you’ve done, and badge or no badge, he’ll know it’s none of his business. He’ll just be sure to keep a close eye on the investigation to make sure no one decides to check to see if the brakes were cut.
Your phone will ring. The Sheriff will rise.
“That’s probably for me.”
A few minutes in the kitchen, muttering a few one word questions and one exclamation, and the Sheriff will be back in the living room, resting on the ottoman, this time his hat in his hand.
“Your husband didn’t survive the crash,” he’ll say.
A quick inhale. Put the tissue to the nostrils. You surrendered the right to cry for him.
The Sheriff will arch up in his seat, take a breath, then he’ll add, “The whore. She wasn’t in the car.”
Your lips will part just wide enough to execute a gasp.
“She survived?”
“All we know is she’s not down in that gully.”
Say to the Sheriff, “You’ll have to excuse me Leo.”
“Now Frida–”
“I said you’ll have to excuse me Leo. See yourself out.”
The minute you hear the Sheriff’s car pull away, get the hell into town and this time make sure you kill that whore before she can get a lawyer to hand her everything your poor murdered husband worked so hard to provide for you.
Happy He Went Over A Cliff With That Whore Day!
