Why I Hate The Merchants

None of those appear on her face. She just looks . . . tired.

That makes the rage already bubbling inside of my stomach boil over.

Evenly and quietly, I tell her: "You humiliated yourself over at the Merchants tonight, Ella. It was disgusting. You looked like a cow."

She stares into my face. Her eyes are unwavering as she looks into mine. Oddly, they are . . . cold. Then she turns her back and walks very slowly and deliberately to the bedroom. I hear the click of the lock after she closes the door.

The next day when I get home from work, she's gone.

Her clothes. Her painting supplies. Half of the money in our bank account.

Gone. All gone.

There is no note. There is nothing left of her.

Except for that painting of the fat, naked woman on the couch. That she left.

I run over to Pete and Jeanie's and demand to know if they've talked to her. If they know where she went. When she's coming back. They look down at the ground and can't look me in the eye.

Pete just says, "She's gone, Mark. She's not coming back."

There are no barbecues anymore. Pete doesn't come over to sit in the driveway and drink beer with me anymore. The last time he did, he looked afraid, and said, "Man. She's gone. You have to pull it together."

But he's wrong. I don't have to do anything.

Anything.

Except sit here in my driveway. Drink beer that tastes like hot, black bile as it slides down my throat. Listen to the sound of His guitar and Pete's harmonica as it wafts through the windows from next door. Like they're fucking mocking me.

So, I rest the bottom of my chin on the barrel of this gun. I adjust my finger on the trigger.

Because I hate the Merchants.

I hate them.

Everything was fine before they came.

They ruined everything.