But he wasn’t going to find out.
Unless she told him.
Which she wasn’t going to. Until she decided to leave him. In order to dedicate herself wholeheartedly to fucking and being fucked by Kent. Which, she only now realized, she might haveto.
Soon, very soon.
Maybe tonight.
This thought sent a shivering, lustful thrill through her (through us).
Oh, life, love, desire, I just couldn’t get enough.
I sent my alertness out in every direction.
Were the people here aware at all of the horrible truth Mr. Bhuti had just communicated?
Yes, they were. Many of them knew about it, believed in it. But were carrying on.
It was, after all, a wedding.
Blasting out of Jeanie, I found Carol-Ann, the cheated-upon wife of Kent, sitting alone at a table near the pool, thinking (inresponse to Joyce, Joyce Jackson, a bright-eyed TV interviewer in her mind, who admired Carol-Ann for living her life in such a fun, optimistic way that gave hope to so many): No, Joyce, it doesn’t bother me at all that I’ve been sitting here alone practically the whole wedding. A modern woman is secure in who she is, and recognizes that her husband, when at a wedding with many of his co-workers, may find it necessary to offer each one of them meaningful face time.
Now, Carol-Ann, says Joyce, checking her notes. I see here that Kent doesn’t often bring you to his office events, does he?
No, he does not, Carol-Ann says. And, again, great question and thanks for having me. Opportunities like this really help me spread my message of hope and never getting down about anything.
That is so true and insightful, replies Joyce. You have labored long and hard, it says here, in the pretty boring darn vineyard or orchard or whatnot of being constantly ignored all the time by Kent.
Isn’tthatthe truth, says Carol-Ann. And isn’t that true of so many women these days?
At which the crowd bursts into applause.
Although, I have to ask, says Joyce. Kent seems, at the moment, kind of sweet on that dumpy little what’s-her-name. Doesn’t he?
Jeanie? says Carol-Ann.
Yes, Jeanie, says Joyce. See that right there? That look of adoration he just now shot her? And now she’s looking back at him with such narrowed sexy eyes. Can you, audience, feel the heat, like I’m feeling it?
The audience could.
The audience really could.
Oh, shut up, Joyce, says Carol-Ann. Isn’t it time for a break or something?
Well, as you know, Carol-Ann, Joyce says. We don’t take breaks here on this TV station that runs only in your mind.
Oh, Joyce, Shmoyce, there was no Joyce and no TV show and she was just dumb old her at this boring stupid wedding in this big old honker-ass rich-person yard, watching her gross selfish pig of a husband put his boner for Jeanie on total public display.
Which was why she was leaving. Right this minute.
Iwhiskedalong behind her, staying within the orb of her thoughts as, fighting back tears, she (we) raced away through the crowd, resisting the urge to check to see if Kent had even noticed we were leaving, the big dope, and whether he might, for once, come rushing after us, having finally realized that if someone loved someone as much and in such a self-sacrificing way as we loved him, well, that was it, that was the person you should choose, right?
Oh, how rich, to be in love, humiliated, longing to be taken back, striding along in new, uncomfortable spike heels, wearing, beneath our elegant new Elie Tahari sheath, some simplybeautifulFleur du Mal lingerie, in case this might turn out to be the evening Kent finally saw the light, but no, this was not going to be that evening, and now we had to go home and undress in utter despair and put on our big baggy comfortable Winnie-the-Pooh PJs and sob ourselves to sleep even as we considered how to present/rationalize this unprecedented bailing-on-the-wedding business in the most positive light possible when Kent came home.
If, in fact, he ever did.
Which, it wouldn’t be the first time since this Jeanie nonsense began that he hadn’t.
