There was a time when Mildred would stumble in, with her dress coat unbuttoned and her makeup crusting from her long days. These usually happened on the second affair she had. I would wait patiently to catch her in my arms, then carry her limp body up the stairs to a safe haven. There was a time that I was so naïve that I thought none of this was Mildred's fault, and some dirty scoundrel got his hands on her and fed her lies. She was lost, and she needed guidance, so I was going to provide her with guidance and make her love me again. There would be a nice, hot bath waiting for her upstairs, with her favorite salts poured in to scrub her skin free of any impurities that stained it from the sex. I would lay her on the bed, brush her hair back from her face and whisper to her that everything was going to be okay. That, I, her husband was going to take care of her. Her mumbles were incomprehensive, but from the jungled mess I would hear the words I only sought out, I love you. Those words always filled me with joy when she was at her weakest and could barely move. Those were the moments I cherished with her because for once she finally allowed me to touch her in the most intimate way; those were the moments she would bare her soul to me and cry that she was sorry. They always got me. She always got me.

Her skin would redden under the heat of the bathwater, and the ends of her hair would become damp. I took care to wash her body gently, and without rush, just to see the relaxed look on her face that I was always greeted with at the end. Our laundry basket we never used had become sort of a seat for me during these times. I would pull it up, ease down on it, and watch her before even touching her. Her arms would be laying on the edges of the tub as if to hold herself up from drowning and her lips would be pursed. Then, out of the rarest of moments, she would sigh, and release whatever was in her, out, and I knew I had permission to touch her, to love her again.

And that's where it all ended, the magic I desperately wanted back in my life and the love that I was hanging on to by a thin thread. Those nights usually ended in me brushing her hair one hundred times, like she use to do when Bud was first born. The brush was an antique brush I had bought on a whim when I had to visit an antique store for business down in no man's land. She usually kept this brush polished and shined in the drawer at the top right of her vanity. It was the same place she kept her wedding ring, tucked away in the back where no one could see. But I would notice that princess cut diamond anywhere. Hell, it cost six thousand dollars, just so it could sit in the back of a goddam drawer.

This is what our life had consisted of. But then I stopped waiting for her to stumble in the apartment at three o' clock in the morning. I stopped giving her those baths to show that I all was forgiven. Those came to halt when the very man she was fucking stumbled in with her one night and I almost shot him. He was maybe ten years younger than me, with skin as dark as an Italians and eyes the color of grass. He had a sly look in his eyes, as if he had just entered the big house and was going to fuck my wife on my bed. I had heard them pull up, and had recognized his car immediately. I watched them hold onto each other for dear life as they conquered our cobblestone sidewalk. Every time Mildred goddam slipped he found an excuse to grab her ass or touch her breast. That was the night I had decided I was through. So I rose off of the stool before they could ever make it to the door. I had moved the gun downstairs a long time ago, when an increase in crime was on the rise, not the increase in my wife's sexual relationships.

The name was a 460XVR Revolver. Just like Mildred's hairbrush I had kept mines dolled up and hidden away from the kids and her. The gun wasn't even in my hand, instead there was a shot glass filled to the brim with sparkling apple cider. I had decided if I killed the motherfucker they would know I was in my right mind, and he was shot with a clear conscious.

One could argue that I hadn't a clear conscious. My blood pumped with the carnal emotions of rage, jealousy, and possessiveness. She was fumbling with her keys to get in, while he stood behind her with his arms wrapped around her waist. I saw him nibble her neck. I watched her giggle. I heard the click of the gun. It was up, and it was steady. One thing I could give to my pops was that he taught me how to hunt the trickiest of dear. No different than aiming and killing a human, right? Wrong.

The kitchen lights were purposefully kept off. That's how she always kept it after her late night home invasions. They were located right beside the door, easy to flick on and off for her convenience. Every fucking thing was for her convenience. Her slender fingers moved to flick the lights. It was the same instance that I had set the glass back down on the countertop. That's what had caught their attention. It was her eyes first that settled first on the gun, then at me. I knew I looked like a beast of some sort. I hadn't shaved all week, nor had I took the time to cut my hair. I had been wearing the same clothes for the past two days because my wife couldn't bother to pick up her phone. The hand that held the gun also nursed a bandage to the bloodied knuckles. Those came after the twentieth call I made to her and she refused to pick up. My knuckles suffered more than that cobblestone chimney I had built for her.

It was a moment of silence. She hadn't made to move to stop me, but instead her arms instinctively pushed his body back through the door. He grumbled something in her ear and his name was lost to the sound of the gun clicking. I had long ago taught myself not to shake my being before a kill. I knew how to point, aim, and fire. Every fiber in my being was screaming at me to shoot. The poison of envy rang through my head as I watched her plea with me to not shoot him. But all I could hear was the sound of dice rolling through my head. Sweat had begun to form on my brow and was easing down the bridge of my nose. I wanted to hate her, but hated him more. She was protecting him. That's all I could think about while I watched, and allowed her to shove his frozen, still body out of the house. For a moment our eyes had connected and I saw it in his eyes. It was fear, but not for himself, but for her. And in that instant I made up my mind that he wasn't the problem, she was. But I was held accountable for her faults, and all the things that couldn't even be deemed excusable.

I thought she would come back in the house, and comfort the bulging vein that threatened to explode in my forehead. I thought she would gently take my hand and chide me into lowering the gun. I longed for her kisses on my face to reassure me she loved me. But deep down I had known. I didn't see my wife for the next two days.

Tonight was no different. I couldn't sleep so I had made my way downstairs and into the kitchen for a glass of water. That's where I found her, her torso bent in an odd angle to accommodate her sleeping position on the island table. I stopped to study her. Her forehead was sweaty, causing the bangs to stick to it. Her mouth was agape, sucking in air it seemed her lungs so desperately needed. On her lips was that damned cherry red lipstick. I sighed. My beautiful wife. My loving wife. The one I no longer wanted to hurt me anymore.

The papers were clear as day in my study's drawer. One would think they were just other documents filled with codes of the clients of the company I worked for. Instead, these documents had long been drawn up, but were adjusted accordingly when I purchased a new asset or paid anything off. I hadn't thought to get them at first, but I had passed that damned lawyer's office one too many times on my way to work. Every day the man's eyes stared down at me from the billboard, and as I drove away they caused heat to rise in my back. His name was Donald Lewis. An aging British man that was deemed the best divorce lawyer in the state of North Carolina. I just happened to walk into his office, expecting to walk out of it with a business card. But the man saw the anger in my eyes that reflected the hurt that was running through my veins. He recognized the tears of the broken hearted as I explained to him the deeds done by my wife. With permission, he had built a case against her, stating that she was not to get a dime. The pussy inside of me didn't want to see my wife, the mother of my children living in some dingy apartment barely being able to afford it. But Mr. Lewis had resuscitated the beast inside of me and reminded me why I had stepped foot into his office in the first place.

He gave me the documents three weeks later for review. She was to get what was rightfully hers, including any personal assets that she herself bought, or specific items I had bought for her and were willing to part with. These were the same documents I had trembling in my hand. I held my breath watching her turn her head to rub the drool off the corner of her mouth, and then cradle her head in the crook of her arm. This had to be done. It must be done, I chanted in my head. I made no noise placing the papers down on the island beside her sleeping form. How she was going to react, I had no idea. But I needed my freedom in order to regain my life and happiness back.

It was a strange feeling being slapped in the face. My wife had never made a move to hit me in all of our twenty something years being together. I had awoke to the sting that was left behind from her hand making contact with my cheek. They didn't stop there, however, they continued in raid on my person. On instinct, I stopped the flailing of her arms by grabbing her wrists and throwing her on the bed. I was calm, and collected. I detected the anger that made her cheeks flush red to the papers that were wriggling in her right hand.

"You bitch!" The spit was unexpected. She had never spit in my face. This woman never ceased to surprise me.

"Calm down Mildred."  My voice was calm and low. I did not know if our kids were there, and I did not want to find out by them barreling in here to see what was wrong. I was met with the barring of her teeth and growls being emitted from her throats. Her thrashing body had me struggling to keep her grounded and I made to place my knee on her stomach. She took this opportunity to slap me again. This time it threw me off. One of her manicured nails caught the edge of my lip and tore the skin from it. The small hint of pain had me losing my composure and falling back off her person. She took this opportunity to push me closer to the edge of the bed.

"How the fuck could you? You-you-you ungrateful motherfucker!" My head snapped at the sound of her calling me ungrateful. I watched her face contort into disgust as she peered her cold eyes down at me. Her finger rose and she pointed it at me as if to accuse me of any wrong doings.

"I had sex with you, we had kids together. I saved you from the iron fist of your goddam father." She stepped closer to me supporting myself on the elbows.

"I gave you life." She hissed the whispered statement to me as if it were some form of secret declaration. I winced at her words. The shock at her response was simply replaced with confusion, then resignation. She had given me life, but slowly and surely, she had killed me.

Her eyes were wild. The pupils were enlarged, and the crusted mascara that once adorned her eyelashes had made a mess of littering black marks on her cheeks. The rim of her eyes were red, a clear sign that she had been crying. But those things did not stop me. They would have me falter in step, and instead of approaching her with confidence and authority I would have approached her with a sort of cowardice. I backed her up against the wall, my tongue flickering out to taste the blood that bubbled at the gash in my lip.

She held no sign of fear in her eyes, but more of defiance, as if she had a choice in signing the papers. She crossed her arms about her exposed chest, a pink nipple peeking out from the silk robe adorning her body.

"Sign the papers, and get the fuck out of my house."

That's how I had left her that morning. I had simply walked away to brush wash my face in the bathroom. It wasn't until I stepped into the shower that I heard her pleas and cries being lost to her banging on the door. I wasn't going to give in. I refused to give in. These were the words that I chanted in my head driving about the freeway. No longer was I going to be a slave to the woman that had lost all love for me. I walked past her this morning and she made it her rightful duty to grab my arm and whisper in my ear that she hated me. That was indication enough that I needed to let her go. The boys and Georgie had already disappeared back to college last night. The only person that would have known of the discrepancies that took place between Mildred and I would have been her sister, Bonnie. Bonnie knew about the affairs long before I could have even guessed it. In some way I held a grudge against Bonnie for never telling me, but there was a code, and I respected the fact that she held loyalties with her sister before she would ever hold any with me. Her pity had not gone unseen. That morning when she had come to pick of Mildred and drug her limp body out the door, she only looked at me and nodded, as if finally acknowledging what I was doing was right.

There was no need for me to go back to the bakery now. It was a thought I had conjured in my head just as I had pulled up to the establishment. I had been missing all day, calling my partner to let him know that I was going to take yet another day off. He understood my sense of urgency and allowed it. After Mildred had packed up what she could fit into Bonnie's rental car, I relished and cried at the thought to coming home again to an empty house. It was there, after I did a walk-through of the house, eyeing every picture and taking note of every piece of furniture that I realized I was alone. I longed for the presence of my wife, even if it was her back she was giving to me. The picture I held in my hand of her smiling at the camera, taken back in the early eighties became nothing more than a scatter of broken glass. It hit the chimney walls and landed graciously on the floor. I watched it break, with some of the pieces bouncing off the wood. I felt just like that picture in that moment, broken, unsolvable, and invaluable. . Within due time, I had sat down on the couch, and as a man grieving for love, lost myself to the tears that stained my face and welcomed the sleep that dragged me into the darkness.

I had awoken only two hours later. It was only two o'clock in the afternoon and I had yet to accomplish anything in the day. It seemed unreal, and real at the same moment. It took me a while to realize it but the house was the same with and without Mildred in it. For the past eight years she had treated it merely like a hotel than a home, which I guess made it that much easier to accept the fact that she was actually gone. I left the picture lying on the floor. Stepping through the archway that separated the front hallway from the living room, I decided that that was where I was going to leave my broken soul. My steps felt uneasy at first while I walked around and gathered up my keys, and put on my jacket and shoes. I felt like a baby just entering the world, blinking for the first time, and taking it all in. For a moment I was scared, but all of that went away when I located the divorce papers sitting atop the island.

I sat down and read over each document. On many of the pages tear stains had caused ripples in the paper and left stain marks. Those were overlooked by the name, wrote clear as day, signed and dated on the dotted lines. A sense of joy burned through my veins and I allowed a small smile to creep on my face. I guess this was just what I needed. In some way I needed her approval that allowed me to let her go. Her name signed meant that she didn't want me anymore, and that I no longer needed to hang onto her no longer. It was a sad, small smile, but a smile nonetheless.

My steps were shaky as I entered the bakery. I had just come from dropping off the signed papers, but Mr. Lewis was not in his office. His secretary gladly made it her duty to let him know everything was in place. We were to meet tomorrow, just in case Mildred decided to hire a lawyer of her own. I was prepared. I had always been prepared.

"Morning Mr. Ken!" It was Rebecca this time. She was a lady not too much younger than me that had been working at the bakery for the past two years. Atop her head sat her hat that complimented the curled bangs that escaped from beneath it and the pigtails that rested on her back. Her hair was the color of golden wheat, just like Bud's. She greeted me with a small smile and I nodded at her. My eyes unconsciously scanned the bakery and I wished to find the one person I was looking for. Ever since I had woken up I had a mission, to correct the wrongs that I allowed to happen in my life. One of them happened to be Jamica. She did not deserve the bitterness that was in my voice. I voiced to Rebecca that I wanted the usual, except this time I wanted a croissant. Rebecca smiled at me, noting the change in my order and welcomed it. While she retrieved my pastry I noticed her head snap to the side at the call of her name.

"Hey, have you seen Jamica?" my ears perked at the sound of her name and I looked to Rebecca, waiting for an answer.

"Yea, I think she is over at the runner's station, but I believe she is about to leave." At hearing this information, I moved to pay and retrieve my items. The walk to my car was a brisk one. I sat in there once more and watched Jamica come from some unknown place in the bakery. Today, her shoulders sagged and her eyes appeared to be sad. I noticed that from twenty feet away. She looked tired. Her petite body moved about the bakery for about five more minutes before she moved to what I assumed to be clocking out. That was my cue. I cranked up Betsy and maneuvered her to the back of the bakery. There, I waited for Jamica to come out of the back. My hands became jittery at the thought of explaining myself to her. She demanded no explanation whatsoever, nor did she need any insight into my personal life, but I owed it to her. In some form I had always been a sucker for big pretty eyes. Especially when they seemed to hurt. That's why I was sitting at the back of the bakery, with my car running, waiting for her to come out. The heat was on and it had me feeling drowsy. Before I knew it, my eyes were closing and I was dozing off. The last thing I remembered was checking the time at being five minutes after four.

I jolted to awake at the pounding of the rain hitting my window shield. I hurriedly checked the time and saw that it was now forty minutes after four. Shit. Shit shit shit shit. I hit the steering wheel and readjusted my seat. There was no way to tell if she had left yet without going back into the bakery so I decided to leave, hoping that I would catch her another day.

The ride home was always the same. I traveled a little ways down Cary Parkway and turned right on Henderson. Henderson was more of a public street than private, housing bus stops along the way. It wasn't until I got stuck in traffic and was parked in front of one of them that I noticed her. She was standing beside the bus stop post, with a large bag cradled against her side, and a huge umbrella failing at protecting her from the rain. She was there, and she had noticed me. Her brown eyes had happened to peek out from under the rim of the umbrella the instant I had come to recognize her. Just as she had caught my eyes she had looked away, seemingly with a hint of embarrassment in her eyes. I noticed the cuffs of her pants becoming wet and the sleeve of her rain jacket suffering as well. She made no move to adjust, and I made no move to stop looking at her, because she still refused to meet my eye.

I may had been born and raised in the North but I knew my manners. The blaring of a horn had me coming back to reality and her eyes settled once on me again. I hurriedly held up my finger, beckoning for her to come to me. It was either now or never. I watched her knee bend, as if to come to me, then she hesitated. Her eyes glanced back at the angry driver behind me as he blared his horn again. Her eyes met mines and again, I prayed she would get in the car. It would make both us feel better. The car blared their horn one more time before driving past us in a rage. That was enough to get her feet moving across the pavement and swinging open the back door. I had thought she would settle in the front, but hinted at her nervousness as soon as she was able to get into the car. I twisted my body around and watched her adjust herself. I had long put on my blinkers to allow others to pass to me. She had yet to meet my eyes, instead she focused on placing the umbrella on the floor and taking off her soaked jacket. I watched, fixated on the shirt sticking to her skin. The rain glistened on her neck, and her short fingers moved to wipe away the droplets that traveled down her collar bone. I watched them, in the most unbashful way as they traveled to disappear into the cotton of the shirt. That was when I saw it. The peak was clear as day, beckoning to me.

I never allowed myself to have thoughts like that, even while my wife cheated on me I made it clear that it was only her body I would pay attention to. Now, this girl had herself exposed to me in the most unintentional way. I had turned around before she could catch me, and before she could catch me, I focused my rearview mirror to take her in. It was there that I was met with her eyes. She blinked once, then twice at me before speaking.

"Thank you." I nodded my head at her, then noticed her shake her head. "You didn't have to do this though, the bus would have been there any minute." I watched her try to explain herself, and cover the tint that darkened her brown cheeks with red.

"No, I didn't have to, but there is something I wanted to say." She nodded her head then beckoned to the street.

"Can we go, please?" I had forgotten driving altogether. My mind had drawn a blank space and was filled with the thought that there was another being in the backseat of my car that wasn't my children.

"Where to?" As much as I tried to focus my attention on the road, my eyes had traveled back to her.

"There is a Food Lion up ahead, you can drop me off there." Her voice was quiet, and tired, as if she was putting all of her energy into speaking. I wanted to object to her destination, citing that I could take her home but then imagined how she felt. Here she was, a stranger stationed in another stranger's car who was willing to take her anywhere. I would have been weary too.

"I am not going to kidnap you." I caught her eyes in the mirror and saw her mouth lift up at the corners, but her eyes refused to meet mine. They were trained on the passing buildings and trees.

"I know you're not." Her tone held a sense of jest in it and I craved for more.

"How do you know that?" Her eyes flicked straight to the mirror and she smiled. "No kidnapper would take me, a person at that, in clear daylight. Not when you had that hot headed driver behind you." She still smiled, and shook her head, refocusing her attention back out the window. I smiled at her observations. She was indeed right.

"Plus, you haven't even locked the doors." I glanced to see her small fingers trace the lock of the door. Playing with her, I reached to lock the doors. It was then that I was rewarded with the most joyous sound I had ever heard. Her laugh filled the car to the brim and my heart swelled. It had been a long time since I heard a genuine laugh. Her head had been thrown back and her hand was placed lazily on her chest as the sounds fell from her lips. It made my day seem a little bit brighter. My heart strings tightened.

When her body had relaxed into a slump against the backseat of my car, she met my eyes in the rearview mirror and grinned at me. "Thank you." I wanted to believe she was genuine, so I took her gratefulness in strides and returned the appreciation.

"No, thank you."

"For what?" Her inquisitive eyes focused on me, and I was forced to look away. I was too scared to admit that this simple moment in my car had given me more life than the past eight years had.

"Just, thank you. You made me realize something the other night. And first and foremost, let me apologize for anything that you heard, or saw." I didn't bother to look back, I knew I had her attention from the silence that filled the car. I waited for her objections and didn't receive any. So I continued. "I-I have just been having some issues in my personal life-""

"Those of which you don't have to share with me Mr. Ken. You do not need to explain anything-""

"Jamica."

"Mr. Ken you really don't have-""

"Jamica." My voice was hard and stern. We had finally pulled into the parking lot of Food Lion, and I swerved the car into a parking space and parked. I unbuckled my seat belt to turn and see her hurrying to unbuckle her seat belt. Her movements stopped at her realization that I had turned around to look at her. Her eyes looked defeated and she dropped her hands.

"Please, allow me to explain myself." She nodded and turned her eyes to look out the window instead of at me and I sighed.

"My name is Ken. Not Mr. Ken. That is something my employees call me. You are not my employee." When I did not continue I saw her nod her head in understanding.

"My wife, she uh-she um, she just," My voice waivered and I lost all will to speak.

"She's gone." I meant to tell that statement with an air of confidence, as if I actually believed myself that she was truly gone. Instead, my head began to throb at the sensation of pure loss that traveled through my body. My voice had come out broken, reflecting the state of my spirit. I was broken. I had walked out the house with a plan to put her behind me, only to be faced with the fact that there was a possibility I would be alone for a while.

"Ken." Her voice came like a whispered prayer in the night. It reached my ears and eased the feelings of unrest that had settled at the pit of my heart. I did not register what she was doing until her body was invading my personal space. She smelled strongly of a flower mist and the musk of rain mixed together. There were bags under her eyes, and her lips were pressed into a thin line. I was at a loss for words. How could I explain to another person that I was hurting when I refused to accept that fact myself?

It was only when she touched me that my resolve broke. It was the simplest of touches. Her brown fingers moved to pat my hand to offer me support and quiet the sobs that had begun to break my reserve. I latched onto her hand for dear life, and it was there in that car that she cradled my head to her chest, and allowed herself to become something I never had in my twenty years of marriage, a lifeline of support.