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They call me an alcoholic behind my back. I know they do. So would I if I just saw me sat here. Night after night sat here and just drinking. Not drinking because I have to. Not drinking to forget or 'drown my troubles'. Just drinking. For pleasure and for the taste. The warm feeling you get from a nice glass of wine and a good book. Of course, if I was looking for a decent glass of white I would go to a half decent bar rather than this dive. I don't really care. It's just comforting to know that this place will always be here, around the corner. So accessible and reliable, unlike that sodding husband of mine. Out until the small hours of the morning even on a weekday. It amazes me how he has managed to keep his job, the incompetent arse that he is. I'd divorce him but it's too much bother.
I know he has a mistress as well. I know that that's where he goes every night. Tracey. That's her name, Tracey. I saw it on his mobile last month. I'm not too bothered though. At least the feeling's mutual. At least I'm not one of those poor saps who are still madly in love with their quote "better half" followed by awkward laughter and even more awkward arm squeeze end quote. God I hate parties like that. Where you know more than the host about her husband's dishonest dealings with the fairer sex but still have to play along as "It's not your place to say, Caroline. She should figure it out for herself." That's what Mick told me anyway. Well I have figured it out. It's not like he was exactly James Bond about it either though. It's not like i was detective Rebus following a lead in an Ian Rankin novel. Just common sense and observations. Maybe he wanted to be caught? Knowing him, he just wanted to stick the knife in deeper before twisting it to watch me squirm and dance for his pleasure. Well I am sorry Michael James Pryce, but I will not give you the satisfaction.
I will pretend to be oblivious. I will even be extra kind just to see his confusion. He's like a little puppy you can trick by pretending to throw the ball but keeping it behind your back. Ending up just running in a circle, chasing his tail. I will guilt him into a confession. It's not enough that I know. I need him to tell me and admit it himself that he's the one in the wrong. I need him to be the weak one and come grovelling to me for forgiveness. At which point I'll tell him I'm seeing someone else anyway. "Who? Who is it?" He will become more and more irate, more and more frustrated because I won't tell him. Typical him, he will 'need' to know every detail. He hates secrets being kept from him but doesn't see the problem when the roles are reversed. Hypocrite. "Tell me you unfaithful harlot!" he'll scream at me. So predictable. "Why? Why should I when you never told me about Tracey. That's a slag's name by the way. Typical you. Chasing anyone who'll give out for the price of a bag of chips! Why should I tell you about my lover? What, going to compare cock sizes are you, like some 12 year old on the school yard? You're pathetic you know? Pathetic."
I'm not actually having an affair. Too loyal for that. Even though he treats me like shit and I couldn't care less about him anymore, there's still that underlying feeling of guilt if I were to sleep with someone else. This wedding band still means something to me. The vows I took I still live by. The promise I made him when he proposed, I still keep. I haven't slept with another man since, no matter how much I may have considered it. Our wedding night was my first time with anyone and I thought we would be our one and only, forever. He always had a way with words. Always had a way around me and a way out of the dog-house.
In the early days he brought out the best in me, but now, he brings up this dark figure which lays dormant in me like a volcano's true ferociousness lies sleeping within the unyielding mountain side. I feel this other side start to awaken and start to tear her way out. She comes through in my thoughts. I had never before contemplated murder, but . . . poisoning seems a good way. Just pour a little botulinum toxin into his whisky at the bar on a Saturday evening. One of the few nights he will still go out with me and not her. Easily acquired and almost undetectable unless you know what you're looking for. Death by misadventure possibly? His liver is packing up anyway so that could be an explanation. He's dying slowly anyway but I want the pleasure of doing it myself. I want to see him suffer for once, and in a place he holds so dear as well. The icing on the cake and the final feather in my cap. One final win over him after so many losses at his feet. And in that brief moment before his world goes dark, he will know and he will know why. As I sit there sipping my wine as I do now, he will know and he will be sorry.