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Jones perceived his seriousness as a desire to start work on the job at once. Good day. Marcus finally found his voice. After Jones was gone, Marcus sat down again at his desk. He was stunned. Mechanically, he opened the lower right-hand drawer and took out a bottle of Scotch and a glass. He poured himself a generous shot and, while sipping it, pondered how to handle this tricky situation. Not much to look at, he thought. No wonder she wants to get a divorce and marry me. He decided to give his operative Scott Palmer the job and to stay away from Christine Ann during the two weeks of the investigation.
They would have a good laugh then. Do me a favor now, will you? Call Mr.
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Jones and ask him to come to the office tomorrow morning at ten. Sit down. Would you like a cup of coffee?
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When they had started drinking the coffee, Scott walked into the office and, after greeting Jones, gave a folder to his boss. Quickly, Osborne took out the original and gave it to his client, keeping the duplicate face down in front of him. Jones read the report without a change of expression. It shows that she had three lovers in two weeks.https://pikerenapab.cf/college-and-university-test-guides/the-oregon-coast.pdf
The Cheating Wife | Strand Magazine
Osborne choked on his coffee, spilling some on top of the copy of the report in front of him. Oh, pardon me. When he finished, he felt weak and exhausted. Your email address will not be published. Plus Insider offers, flash sales, and exclusive content in your inbox every week.
The Case of the Middle-Aged Wife: A Short Story
The book finishes because everything that comes after is boring, relatively speaking. Back then, that would have been perfect. Back then, that would have meant no shouting, no tears, no throwing stuff around, no doors being slammed, no alcohol breath, no missing dad for days on end. Back then, all I wanted was boring.
I get headaches if I stare at the TV too long. Something happened last week that nearly upset the whole apple cart. Some cards came through the door and a couple of people phoned me, at least one claiming to be my granddaughter. I know, vaguely, that I have grandchildren, but I do my best to block them out.
But they did call and sang to me. Apparently, it was my birthday. I asked them if it was possible they throw me the party but I not attend. They laughed, like I was making a joke. Old, now. The older I am, the less likely it is the prince will come and find me and whisk me away somewhere wonderful. I glance down at my diary.
The bored housewife as plot point.
In fact… I flick back and check yesterday. I get back a whole month before I decide something should probably change. I never wanted the fairy tale, I just wanted the ending. It never occurred to me that the prince and princess would get old, or die. They would just go on, the same way Sleeping Beauty somehow remained young and virile whilst sleeping for a years.
I tried to explain the impossibility of that the first time they asked me to read to the grand kids.
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Worked wonders for getting out of doing story time. But no one died or aged and that was how it should be. Death exists now. Dad died years ago and I mourned a whole hour before dancing a jig and spitting on his coffin. Mum joined me. I have bad things in my heart, like the bugs you find when you lift up a piece of fruit that looks fine on the top but is rotting and white and mouldy on the bottom. The day I found mum, spreadeagled across her bed with the pill bottle in her hand and foam coming out of her mouth was the day I knew there were no princes.
But finding out that the abusive, sick piece of shit I called my father was still her prince was what banged in the final nail. Love is a sick, twisted thing that makes no sense and is, very much, not boring. I read them through a few times, then let them roll off my tongue.
How long have I been sitting here, lying to myself? Tears come, though not many. I miss him. He gave me children and holidays and a warm body at night, and every other trapping of boredom I could wish for. He was the perfect husband for someone who no longer believed in fairy tales. So what is it about my 80th birthday that makes me want to believe in them again? I have to do something, to make it worthwhile. Both of my kids are happy, their children are healthy and happy.
But there was no adventure in that. Raising kids is no fairy tale. They sing about worlds those with kids will never inhabit. So an adventure. My prince may not be coming, but I can always go to him. I slip my diary onto my side table and take a deep breath.
The canyon was beautiful. Me and Will were there for sunset and it was the most perfect temperature. I feel the skin on my forehead crumple up as I frown.