I’m in a hotel and everything’s great about the room save the outlets. Can you believe this? It’s never happened before. Lousy outlets. They’re loose. How can outlets be loose, don’t they make them all the same? But they are, they’re loose, the plug keeps falling out. And before that I was congratulating myself on how well it all was, but now the outlets.
I was in need of something, desperately, and I didn’t know what it was but it was this. A room of my own. Without reminders or baggage or someone telling me I’m not the same woman he married. A quaint observation, by the way, don’t you think? Is any of us the same after ten years and two kids and the usual knocks and worries and fleeting moments of bliss that fill our time?
So my hotel room doesn’t talk, it reminds me of nothing, there was noise I had to escape, and except for the outlets, I might find peace here. However small.
Noise, yes, there’s been too much noise, too much buzzing in my head. Here’s one that kills me, though if it hadn’t happened I’d fixate on something else. My husband introduced his girlfriend — Racquel Dixon, a Craigslist trolling whore — to my mother-in-law, his mother, when he took her with him to New York in September.
It’s going poorly, me getting over that. I wonder if his girlfriend liked them, my in-laws — she got to meet most of them if not all. Of course she liked them, they’re charming. What’s not to like? I’m sure my father-in-law kissed her cheek, I’m sure H. told her one or two of her wonderful stories. H. has a brilliant sense of humor, I wonder if Racquel enjoyed it.
I wonder if she (Racquel, the girlfriend) enjoyed screwing my husband in his mother’s apartment, in his mother’s bed. Probably. It’s a great apartment. The location is fantastic, and I’m sure they screwed after attending a show of some sort, or a club. They were probably screwing all the times that I called and A. didn’t answer. I bet they looked at the phone and laughed. Whee, what fun!
And on top of it, no kids. When A. and I stay at the apartment we usually have kids, our kids, the kids we had after we married. But this time, what luck, A. and Racquel got good uninterrupted screwing time, completely alone.
Bravo R. and A. You pulled it off, you crazy loons. And now, R. and I have both had sex with the same man in the same bed, in New York. Talk about a small world. Six degrees of women who’ve fucked A. (In his mother’s bed.)
I made it all happen, too. I deserve applause in this. I encouraged A. to go, I watched the kids so he could do it. I watched the kids so that my husband could screw his girlfriend in his mother’s apartment, in his mother’s bed. I’m a pretty damn good catch, don’t you think?
But fine, that’s all fine, it’s happened. Kudos to Racquel Dixon for answering a sex ad. Kudos to Anthony for placing one. We’re all big, no one gets hurt, it’s just sex and lies for two years for God’s sake, right? I mean we’re all grown-ups. Nobody died.
But the outlets, that’s a problem. My plug won’t stay in the outlet. I might have to insist on changing rooms. You don’t think, do you, that they’re like this on all four floors?
(I’m in a small-town hotel. Four floors means I’m at the fancy one.)
The line, you may have guessed, is Bellow again. Humboldt’s Gift.