The Issue is Not the Tissue

Another We Need To Talk

Thanks, kenjisato, for editing.

From working in my carpentry shop without a mask, I picked up a low-level chronic nasal drip over the years, so I keep a box of tissues in every room. Isobel, my wife of twenty years, doesn't mind the tissue boxes in our bedroom or family room, but in the rooms where we entertain guests, she hates them.

Yesterday, a Saturday, I sat in the living room to soak in the feeble rays of a rare winter sun with my laptop, catching up on my emails (code for reading erotic stories) when Izzy appeared in front of me with a deep scowl.

"Graham!" (that's me, Graham Brody, 45, owner of Brody Carpentry.)

"Yes, dear?" In every successful marriage, the man always has the last word, that being 'Yes, dear.' That's what makes (or made) our marriage a happy one.

"We need to talk."

Oh shit. What now? I roll my eyes out of her sight, but can't hide the sigh. Yes, I've read enough stories to know what's coming. Nowadays it seems I'm doing something wrong all the time. "Where and when?"

"Right here and right now. Look where you put that tissue." She points at the used one I'd set on the coffee table.

"What about it?"

"Don't set a wet tissue on the wood. It'll leave a wet spot and you know what wet spots do to a wooden surface."

Oh spare me. Wood is the thing I work with every single damn day, and her voice sounds like a first grade teacher scolding a stupid kid. I don't need this. Without a word, I get up and go into the workshop behind our garage. I pick up a short piece of scrap 2x4 and with all my power whack it against the edge of the workbench. Two pieces break off and fly through the air. There. I exhale. Better.

On a whim, I draw a quick plan for a new coffee table, similar to the one we have, but with a thin Perspex top.

As usual, I draft a list of material I need, get into my pickup and head off to Lowes. Doing something with my hands is a great way to clear any steam blowing around inside my head. What the hell? Izzy and I have lived in this house for more than our twenty married years. I'd inherited it when Grampa passed away, and we'd slowly fixed it up and modernized it, adding two new bedrooms for our kids. In all that time, my tissues on the coffee table had never bothered my beautiful wife. Why today? Something is happening, but what?

It's not about tissues. If it was, she'd have complained about it ten years ago... and never let up. It has to be a new thing, a new disapproval of who I am and what I do, but what? We've always done well financially, so Izzy has never lacked for anything. In the bedroom, both of us reach satisfaction as often and as intensely as we want, at least to my understanding. Neither refuses the other, and mutual happy sighs always end the proceedings. Other than brief disagreements now and then, we never fight, and we've always liked the same things and each other's friends. So... what?

Something deeper has to be bothering her. Wandering through Lowes and picking out the lumber and hardware I need, my mind keeps rolling over possibilities.

As I load the stuff in my truck, the Fry's across the street catches my eye. It's still more than an hour before lunch, so I stroll over and meander through the aisles for electronic gizmos. When I'm done, I return with a few voice recorders, baby monitors and cameras, all wireless.

Back in the shop, I connect everything with an old laptop, and drop one of the voice recorders in her car's console. While she fusses in the kitchen with lunch, I hide a camera and baby monitor in our bedroom and the study we share.

Lunch is tense and quiet, until she sighs. "What's bothering you, Graham?"

Wrong question, wrong time. "You."

Her fork falls into her plate and her mouth drops open. "What are you talking about?"

"Take the snotty tissue you whined about this morning."

"I didn't--"

"Let me finish. Yes, you did. You were all over my ass for supposedly ruining the damn coffee table. For more than ten years I've put tissues on the coffee table. More than ten years, Iz, and never a word from you. All of a sudden, today, it's a big deal. And no, it's not about tissues. For the past few months you've found fault with me for dozens of niggling little things. You are not happy with me. I don't think I've changed, but suddenly I'm not good enough for you anymore. The one who changed is you. I've been good enough, as is, for more than twenty years, now suddenly I'm not. So, long answer to your question of what's bothering me, it's you."

Izzy's hand that had held her fork droops, tears dribble down her cheeks. No sound from her open mouth.

"Thanks for lunch." I stand and return to the workshop to give her space to process my bomb, and continue with the new coffee table.

After a half-hour or so, her voice floats over the intercom. "I'm going shopping." No apology or wanting to talk some more.

"OK." No normal terms of endearment from either party.

When her car leaves, I take some electronic gear and set it up in the kitchen.

Back in the workshop, I follow her location on the phone finder app we both have on our phones. She ends up in an upscale residential area, far from any shopping. Hmm, interesting.

I get in my truck and drive past the house.

My worst nightmare: it's Brandon Schmidt, her high school heartthrob, and the VP in charge of her department. Now I have the name. We've been to their house for company parties several times, where I'd met him and his stuckup wife, Mandy. Is Mandy there? Most likely not.

I park across the street a few houses down, and put my phone to work. A few minutes and a few dollars later, I have Mandy's cell number, which I call. It goes to voicemail, which is no surprise. Because of scammers, I don't answer calls either, unless it's from my contacts. If they want to talk to me, let them leave a voicemail. Which I do. "Mandy, it's Graham Brody. I have an important and very urgent question for you. Please call me, you have my number now."

Three minutes later she calls.

"Thanks for calling," I say in a friendly voice. "Are you home?"

Her tone is frosty. "No, I'm in Maryland with my mother."

"My wife's white Infiniti SUV is in your house's driveway. She told me she went shopping, so she's lying. I know you don't like me, but I thought you'd want to know. If you have a next-door neighbor you trust, you can ask her to verify. Draw your own conclusions and make your informed decisions."

Her voice softens. "What are you going to do?"

"I haven't decided yet, but I'm going to see a lawyer Monday."

"Do you know one?"

"No," I reply, "do you?"

"My sister got a divorce two years ago. I can get her info, maybe we can share her and save some money."

"Sounds good. You have my number now. Let me know as soon as you get your confirmation." I pause. "Hey, sorry to be the bearer of bad news."

A deep sigh comes through. "I understand. Thank you for taking the chance and making the effort. How did you get my number?"

"Not easily, that much I can tell you."

"Are you going to get a private eye?"

"It might help both of us if your neighbor can knock on your front door and take pictures when your husband answers. But no, it's a no-fault state. All we need to get a divorce is to file, no reason needed."

"Hmm... never thought of that. Okay, I'll let you know as soon as I find out about the divorce lawyer."

"And what your neighbor finds. Tell you what, I'm not far from your house. Should she and I meet up and go together?"

"Good idea. I'll let her know when I call."

We hang up and I pull forward. After fifteen minutes a middle-aged blonde walks across the street toward me. We shake hands and I learn her name is Wanda.

After talking for a while, we figure out a strategy.

Wanda walks to the cheater's front door, leans on the doorbell and hammers the door with her flat hand. "Brandon! Brandon! Open up!"

I walk back to my car.

It takes a good five minutes of pounding before he opens up, red-faced, sweating and dressed in a robe. With a frown, he growls, "What is it?"

"There's been a death. You have to get Izzy to call her husband right away."

His red face goes pale. "What? Who died?" Clearly trying to bluster, he stammers, "What are you talking about?"

"Stop it, Brandon. There's no time for your bullshit, this is serious, life and death. Whose car is that in your driveway? It's hers, isn't it? So, knock it off. Bring her to the front door."

My phone rings. Isobel must be standing out of view, but hearing everything. I slide open the connection. She wastes no time with greetings or excuses. "What's so urgent, who's dead?"

"Not who, what. Our marriage."

"What are you talking about? I went shopping."

"Undressed in Brandon's home? I'm here, you lying cow. Right behind your car."

"So? He called me to discuss something so I made a quick stop on my way to the store." Is there no limit to the bitch's lying? Any chance of trying to salvage the marriage flies out the window.

"If that's so, step out the front door. Now." I wait, not disconnecting the call.

As expected, she doesn't show, and after thirty seconds I continue. "See, you can't, because you're not dressed. I may not be what you want, but I'm not stupid. Don't bother coming home. I'm changing the locks and I took the garage clicker from your car. When Mandy comes back tomorrow, she'll probably kick Brandon out, so if you get dressed, the two of you have the rest of the day to find somewhere else to live. Either way, don't, I repeat don't, come to my house tonight."

While she dressed, I deflate three of her tires. I'm busy with the fourth when she emerges, muttering something to Brandon.

I stand up, look at them, cross the street, and drive away without a word.

By the time she gets home, I have all her stuff in garbage bags in front of the garage door. I stand outside the front door, arms folded.

"Graham, let me in."

"Why? All your stuff is there. Load it in the big SUV you just had to have and take it with you. You can even keep the shopping you went for. You no longer live here."

"Of course I do."

"Nope, only my name is on the title. Grampa left it to me before I even met you. Go away. If you don't want to be served at work, be sure to give me your new address."

"Graham, stop it. Nothing happened."

"That's it, right there."

She frowns. "What are you talking about?"

"The lying. You say nothing happened. I saw Brandon taking forever to open the door, and when he did he was red, sweaty, out of breath and clothed only in a robe. You couldn't come out, either. That does not fit anybody's description of 'nothing happening.' So you see, we have a difference of opinion."

"You have no proof anything happened."

"That just confirms it."

"Confirms what?"

"Our difference. It's irreconcilable. That's the number one reason for divorces: irreconcilable differences.

"Your issues weren't about tissues. You have moved on. I'm not good enough for you, at least not as good as your fuckbuddy Brandon. But... good news. Mandy's coming back Sunday, and Monday she and I will have the two of you served at the same time. We're using the same lawyer, so we can share all the videos and pictures of your frolicking she captured. If you accept our reasonable proposals for separation, nobody else will see that mountain of evidence, but if either of you decide to put up a fight, the entire world will see them--pictures, videos and recording your conversations where you dissed not only us, but a whole lot of other people, too. So... you need to leave now. Bye."

I opened the door, stepped in and slammed it shut before she could move.

Epilogue

Izzy and Brandon had a fortuitous flash of sense and sensibility, and didn't fight the divorces. Initially, they moved in together but before the divorces were even final, Brandon caught Izzy cheating with their neighbor.

There's a reason clichés become clichés: they happen all too often. While Mandy and I worked together with our lawyer on the details of our divorces, we got to know each other. Initially just in the friendship sense, but after a few dates, in the Biblical sense, too. Neither of us look remarkable, but we discovered we both have a deliciously wicked sense of humor... and we both love to fuck--a lot. I never thought that at this age I'd learn as many new positions as I did. She just laughed when I told her.

She didn't laugh, though, when I did the drop-knee thing a year later.

"Yes," she crowed in the restaurant, and "Yes!" she crowed in our bedroom when she came for the third time that night. Because she and Brandon had rented their house, moving in with me was a no-brainer.

Back to the cliché thing, it didn't take too long for ole Brandon to screw another married woman. Her husband didn't take kindly to catching them in flagrante delicto and brought poor Brandon's sexual abilities to a premature end. Said husband, a cop, gave his wife a choice: claim rape or admit to slutdom. She chose the former, and Brandon fled town.

Izzy gave up her attempts at obtaining absolution when she faced not one, but both of the parties she hurt with her betrayal. Within a year, we heard she returned to her home town in Georgia, and disappeared from view.

Mandy doesn't mind tissues on the coffee table. She wasn't stuckup, it turned out, just extremely shy. Three kids and their friends are the perfect cure for shyness.

Every anniversary, we formally reassure each other we have no eyes for any other, and therefore we don't have any 'need to talk.' Except, of course, for that screaming when certain things happen in our bed.