Short Story

The Other Woman.

For the second time that day she tearfully surveyed herself in the mirror that hung on the back of her bedroom door. The sun shone through the window behind her giving her an aura of molten gold. She knew she was beautiful, she had seen it reflected in the appraising eyes of countless men as she moved through the world. This was undisputable, a given fact of her existence. She had always felt secure in the knowledge that men wanted her and would go to any lengths to posses her. There had never been a moment when she had had to worry about anything; everything came easily to the truly beautiful. She had finally chosen Karloff for her husband, he was rich, handsome and intelligent, her top three criteria in the husband choosing game.
She had been married to Karloff for eleven years now, had given him a son, Gregorio, her heart string, and had wanted for nothing that the material world could offer. She could wander the austere rooms of their Moscow house, pad barefoot through their sun dappled villa in the Bahamas or lie in their penthouse and listen to the distant, bustling hum that was Kiev. As she looked back over the years of her marriage, she realized, with a faint shimmering of alarm, that she had very few actual memories. All she could bring to mind were vague vignettes of moments spent passing through life, never seeming to actually stand still and absorb anything of where she was or who she was talking to. It was as if she were watching a movie of someone else’s life that had become uninteresting and disjointed. The strangest part was that she always seemed to be alone in these fleeting moments of memory. When she thought about it she realized that this was actually the case. It had been a very long time since she and Karloff had done anything as a couple. Even in the early days of their marriage, before he could use the, “I’ll stay and look after Gregorio, you go’” excuse, he had preferred to stay and work on his computer, and quite happily let her go alone. When she thought of him now, it was the back of his head she saw first in her mind’s eye, his slight shoulders hunched forward, a stray lock of hair tucked behind one ear, the flickering light from his computer illuminating his face and reflecting on his spectacles as he peered intently at the screen. She remembered his grunts of affirmation whenever she held a conversation with him, his eyes never for one second leaving the screen. He would sit like that well into the night, sometimes dawn would be breaking when he finally came to bed, and then he would sleep well past noon, his eyes flickering under his eyelids as though still at work.
In the early days they had always made a point of having dinner together every evening. She couldn’t quite remember when the hasty sandwich or a piece of fruit sitting in front of the computer had become his evening meal. The computer was his life, it took all of his attention, even when she got mad and he would swivel around to face her, she could feel his attention ebbing backwards drop by drop until she had lost him again. When she complained he would become defensive, didn’t she know that that was how he made the money she so loved to spend? This was how he kept his finger on the pulse of world economics; this was how he communicated, and so it went on night after night until she felt so lonely she could taste it. If it had been another woman that had stolen him so completely away from her, she would know just what to do. She could squash her with one exquisitely manicured finger, or step on her with one finely arched, Gucci clad foot, but a computer, how could anyone compete with that? She turned her attention back to her reflection. Of course she could take a lover, there were a whole slew of prospects, but somehow everything seemed so pointless and hollow. No, what she really needed was to find a way of getting through to him, a way to capture his attention, to draw him away from his obsession once and for all.
Suddenly an almost shy smile played across her lips, she dabbed at her wet eyes with a tissue as she made her way to the kitchen. There was coffee already in the coffee maker and it was still hot. She poured some into a large mug, adding sugar and cream, and stirring energetically. She walked slowly and sedately into his office, taking care not to spill any of the liquid as she went. There was no glimmer of recognition that she had entered the room, and she knew from experience that even if she went up to him and planted a loving kiss on the nape of his neck, he would just swat at her as if she were some annoying fly. No kisses tonight, she thought to herself sadly.
He must have sensed something because he half turned towards her as she came to a stop by his side, but it wasn't until she emptied the mug of steaming hot coffee carefully over his laptop that she finally got his complete and undivided attention.