Fucking Up

I gasped when Winston told me that. I remembered the reception. I also remembered that Aimee had been very easy around my boss and the other guys "from upstairs". They had chatted and flirted and yes, I was quite proud of her. But I don't remember her slipping away. So, relieved that I at last found a flaw in his story, I told him that it all had to be rumours and badmouthing. He shrugged and stood. "You believe what you want to believe, man," he said. "But I saw her get fucked there with my own eyes."

I also stood, feeling a sudden rage choke my throat. "You saw?? When? How? She never left and I was there!"

"She went to the lady's four times that evening," Winston said, making a throw-away gesture with his hand. "Only thing is she never went to the lady's." I stared at him. He looked back. Some sympathy crawled into his eyes. "Sorry I had to tell you, man. I thought you knew." He turned and left me behind like an empty shell.

That night I did not know how to find the courage to go home. I left the office early, but only made it past the first bar to reach a second and a third. Together they added up to a nice collection of deep and very empty glasses. At the third bar it took me too long to understand that it was my cell phone ringing, but I got it the next time. It was Aimee and she sounded agitated. She asked where I was and as I answered, my tongue got in the way. I looked up at the bartender and he said "Red Bull". I wondered what he meant. He took over the cell phone and gave directions. I slid off the stool.

A cold splash of water caused Aimee to swim into my field of blurred vision. I apologized, I guess. Next I was in the back of a cab. Then I was riding an elevator. There were blanks, but in the end I lay stretched out on a couch that looked familiar. The lights went out once more.

Mighty sledgehammers crashed into heavy metal drums, while little sweet curls of violin music meandered through them like poison ivy. Growling bases throbbed beneath it. Distant wisps of coffee aroma tried to reach my nose. I cranked my eyes open, expecting my head to float against the ceiling. I was as dead as a living man can be. Slender fingers pushed a mug into my hands and the smell of coffee hit me hard. I sipped. It helped. It helped 0,001 points on a scale of a thousand, but it helped. It was a first little step on a journey across the world. But hey, you have to start somewhere.

Aimee smiled into my face. She sat on the other side of the kitchen table. I must somehow have found the energy to get up and sit there too. We were silent, drinking coffee, eating dry biscuits. My stomach heaved, but stayed put.

"What happened?" she asked, her voice all mellow.

"Good question," I growled. The words sounded reassuringly like themselves.

"Something at work?" she continued. "Bad news?"

I stared at her. It all came back, like a screaming rat pack clawing it's way through my guts. "Bad news, yes," I said. "Awfully bad."

She looked worried. "There are more jobs, honey," she said, putting her warm hand on mine. "You are good, they all know."

"Not that," I answered. Then I could not go on. All the bitter words were there, but I could not get them out. The finality of it all stunned me into silence. It felt so incredibly surreal now. I shook my head as if to clear it from things that stuck to the inside of my skull. "Later," I whispered. I stood and walked to the bathroom. The shower was heaven.

Aimee left for work, I called in sick. They didn't like it, in the middle of the campaign development, but I didn't give a shit. I just sat at the table, an empty cold mug turning in my hands. Then I rose carefully, not wanting to disturb the huge church bells in the dome of my skull. I cleaned up the kitchen and went for a run in a park near the apartment. The cool breeze helped, so did the exercise. My erratic thoughts did not help much, though. Not at all. Breakfast with Aimee had subdued the urge to scream at her, attack her with questions, accuse her, hurt her. All that was left now was a numb feeling. A need to know, but also a fear to know. I'll ask her tonight, I concluded. And just thinking that took a huge weight of my shoulders. A weight that returned of course, as the day progressed. When I was preparing dinner, my hands shook with fearful anticipation.

The meal went all right, as far as Aimee was concerned. She had walked in around 6 pm, all fresh and bubbly. She kissed me for setting the table and making dinner. Then she took a shower and returned in a nice slinky dress to go with the table linens, candles and napkins I had laid out. Me, I had to force each fork full down. She noticed and I guess she supposed I wasn't all well yet. So I struggled through the courses and desserts until we arrived at coffee. That's when I could not keep the lid on it.

"WHY?!" I blurted and the word almost tore open the inside of my throat. Aimee started at the sudden outburst.

"W-what do you mean, honey?" she stammered, clutching the edge of the table with both hands.

I gasped, already ashamed of the outburst. "Honey," I tried again, almost whispering now. "They tell awful...awful things about you at the office." Aimee's eyes widened. She looked surprised, not shocked but confused about what I might mean.

"Awful things?" she repeated. "What awful things? At my office or yours? I don't know..."

I closed my eyes, then opened them again. "They say you fucked half the management at the last few parties of my company!"

When the last word slipped out I already wanted to grab it and put the whole sentence back where it came from. But it was too late. Aimee looked truly shocked. The Hurt invaded her gaze -- an expression I knew so well. It was the way she looked whenever I trampled on her feelings. And at once I felt a total heel. It hadn't been true, of course it hadn't. How could it? Stupid, stupid fool!

"They...they say that of me?" Aimee said with a trembling voice. Her body leant back in her chair, as far away from me as possible. I only stared at her. "And," she continued, now with a hint of frost in her voice. "And you believe that?"

I sat there and knew I blew it. I only had this one story of a spiteful teenager. Goddammit, maybe the boy just wanted to get back at white scum like me. Maybe he and his buddies had a grudge against Aimee for fraternizing with the white bosses "from upstairs". What had I been thinking? Look at her, man. Look at what you did to her. You goddamn fucking oaf. Believing hearsay at a glance and accusing the only person in the whole world who had taken the immense trouble of falling in love with me. Bravo!

Aimee rose. She threw her napkin on the table and walked out of the room. I shook the daze off me and cried after her. She didn't respond and disappeared in our bedroom. As I reached the door, I heard the lock click. It was the most sickening sound I ever heard.

I begged at the door. I knocked and whined. She didn't answer. I even called her cell phone and heard it ring in the kitchen. That night I spent on the couch staring into the darkness until it turned gray again with the light of dawn. I crawled out of the nest I had made and once more knocked on the bedroom door. It opened at once and I started to blurt out apologies. But they stuck in my throat when I saw the suitcases in her hands and the coat on her arm.

"Aimee! Don't!" I cried, trying to block her way. She just evaded me and walked to the kitchen where she picked up her purse with keys and cell phone. Then she went to the front door, never even looking at me. I scrambled behind her, begging her to not do this, to stay, to forgive me, to talk to me. The sound of the door closing put an end to that. I sank to the floor and cried.

The next day was as hollow as the one before. The night in between gave me maybe one hour of exhausted sleep. I avoided the mirror, the shaving gear and the toothbrush. And I again called in sick. I also called Aimee, about a thousand times. She never answered.

Around four in the afternoon the doorbell rang. I ran to it, almost stumbling over my feet. It wasn't her. It was a well-groomed gentleman in a dark blue suit. He asked me if the name he mentioned was mine and I agreed. He handed me a big envelope and informed me that I had been served with divorce papers. He smiled. Then he left me standing in my robe and stubbles, staring at the large yellow envelope.

She wanted nothing out of the divorce. She just wanted out. When I at last saw her at the attorney's office where we had to sign the papers, she hid behind her lawyer and never responded to my urgent pleas to talk. She just signed and left. I had no options left but to follow her example.

I quit my job and not even cared to find a new one. I just hung around in my apartment, watching TV and playing stupid video games. I felt very sorry for myself.

One day, not a month after the divorce, I picked up my mail, sorting through it. There was an expensive, cream envelope. The handwriting stopped me, making my heart race. Inside was a formally printed card. It invited me to attend the marriage of Ms. Aimee Gabrielle Beaulieu and Mr. John Harris Petersen. The envelope also contained a slip of paper with a single line on it, written in the same hand as the cover. It said: "Honey, I always fuck up, never down."

Petersen was my ex-boss. And by now Mrs. Petersen's ex-husband. I never liked him much. But right now I felt pity.

The End.