Good Wife

Previously Submitted to NYC Midnight writing contest

Bad things come in threes. I should have known when I opened the door to find not one, but two, government officials at my door. One, a suit who asked my name and informed me, “You’ve been served”, then walked away. The other, uniform, stammering on about someone’s husband being dead. Struck by a black SUV crossing Central this morning.

Wait.

Did he say James—my husband? He’s asking to come in. Talk. Questions about James. I nod—sure. That’s what a good wife does. Me. The wife.

Wait.

My mind is racing so fast I almost forget. No. You can’t come in. “I’m going to vomit.” I turn and slam the door shut. I run to the toilet, but not because of grief or shock, I vomit because immediately before I opened the door, I was cleaning out the fridge. Rage cleaning, because I couldn’t find my wedding rings and James and I had yet another fight this morning when I found him asleep on the couch after not coming home until early morning. In the back of the fridge, in a mason jar, I noticed something odd. I pulled it forward and screamed. Dropping and shattering it everywhere exposing my wedding rings…attached to someone else’s bloody finger. I move to sit in the closest armchair, but remember the packet of papers I was served—

Wait.

When did James file for divorce? The earth moves beneath me. I’m going to vomit again. Surely, this can’t all be a coincidence.