Dodd walked in and was visibly taken aback by the sight of his wife in her white, lace teddy laying across their bearskin rug in front of the candle-lit mantle. He sat down his briefcase, slipped off his jacket and tie and joined her on the rug. “To what do I owe this pleasure?” he asked as he kissed her full, dark red botox-ed lips.
To what indeed. Or, in this case, to whom. Dodd’s wife had been home alone when the doorbell rang and she was at the door. Dodd’s wife didn’t have many visitors.
“We have to talk about Dodd,” she whispered. Dodd’s wife allowed The Harlot in. It was always interesting to hear what they had to say. The details changed. The presentation was different every time. But, the story was always the same. The Harlot was no different.
“I’m sorry you have to hear it this way,” she began as Dodd’s wife rolled her eyes knowing full well she wasn’t sorry at all. “But, I’ve been seeing Dodd for over a year now and… well, we’re in love.”
Dodd’s wife sat down a cup of coffee in front of the young, siliconed dreamer.
“He’s told me that he’s talked to you about divorce and that you just aren’t ready,” she continued. Dodd’s wife sipped from her mug and gazed at her over the edge of the steam. The Harlot continued, “It’s just that we’re in love. I’m sure he’d give you a really nice settlement and, um…, he’d take care of you so that your life really doesn’t have to change.” And then the tears came, “It’s just that we are in love. And I deserve this! Dodd loves me. You’re not spontaneous enough for him and he deserves someone who is willing to give him what he needs. I need him. I deserve him to myself,” she sobbed as she threw her arms around the expanse of the dining room with its mahogany 12-seated table.
“Excuse me, please,” Dodd’s wife whispered as she passed a linen napkin to the poor naïve mistress. Did The Harlot really think her crying would make a difference to Dodd’s wife? Did she really think she was the only other one? Dodd’s wife felt almost pity for her. Almost.
Dodd’s wife walked quickly and surely to the kitchen where she retrieved an iron skillet. Since the 20 years she’d been Dodd’s wife – since the 20 years she’d claimed the title for herself – she’d rarely cooked, but she knew exactly where the skillet rested in the cabinet. She pulled it out and swiftly walked back to the dining room, striking The Harlot squarely on the back of the head. Without even a strained breath, Dodd’s wife was able to place her in the deep freeze. The money Dodd paid for his wife’s personal trainer was not wasted.
“Oh,” Dodd’s wife said as she looked coldly into his eyes, “Just thought you’d appreciate a little spontaneity.” And she laid herself back on the rug resting in the knowledge that she was still the reigning Mrs. Dodd Cummings III.