I wake up, bleary eyed and exhausted, not having slept worth a damn by the time my alarm goes off. Grumbling, I make my way out of the bed, using the toilet and then brushing my teeth. I can hear Susan figuring out how to get my body out of bed and moving, looking like she also had a rough night. Good. My mood is not conducive to conversation this morning, so I don't even bother. Climbing out of the shower, I grunt a noise in Susan's direction, not even sure if I mean "good morning" or not.
"I set out clothes for you," Susan offers, and I nod gratefully as I stalk past, towel wrapped around this body I'm wearing. I walk into the closet, closing the door, and lean back against it. Fuck. How can I fix this? We were seeming to move in the right direction for part of yesterday, and then the evening just ripped us back apart again. What can I do to fix my marriage? How can I make her happy?
I slip into the thong underwear, opting not to bother figuring out how the bra works, and pull on the v-neck scrubs. It's a little risque, but not the end of the world, and maybe Susan will appreciate the view before we head off in our different directions. Sitting, I pull on socks and a pair of white sneakers, then try a ponytail. It doesn't really work out, but an attempt was made. Oh well.
Padding into the kitchen, I grab a yogurt cup and eat it, putting Susan's phone and wallet into her usual purse, slinging it over my shoulder. By the time that she's done in the bathroom and walks out, I'm ready to go. I run a critical eye over her clothes, ensuring that she's wearing sturdy jeans, a long-sleeve work shirt, and "Don't forget the steel-toed boots, they're in the garage on the far left." She nods gratefully and eyes my appearance, but either doesn't notice or chooses not to comment on the lack of a bra.
"See you this afternoon," I mumble and head out, climbing into her sedan, backing out of the driveway, and heading to her office. It's not a far commute, maybe fifteen minutes, and I choose not to think about anything in particular. I don't know how I'm going to do her job, but one shitty performance isn't liable to get me fired, so I can muddle through.
Parking, I turn and walk in, finding the front door unlocked. I sit down at the desk in the reception, hearing someone moving around further in the office, and set my purse to one side. Her boss, Doctor Nathan Vance, walks out of a back room, a smug smile on his face. "Susan! You look great this morning, very perky!" Was that a breast comment because of the no bra? I instantly hate this guy. He's tall, about my usual height, but thin, slicked back hair, and a smarmy expression on his face that instantly makes me distrust him and want to check my wallet.
Striding over, he flips the lock on the office door, then walks around and sits on the desk, facing me in the chair. "I thought we could do some inventory and didn't want walk-ins to disturb us," he offers as an explanation, and I'm skeptical, but I nod, waiting to see where this goes. He starts to chat idly, and I try to keep up the small talk, as he asks me about yoga and Pilates, making borderline inappropriate comments like "Yeah, I've noticed that you seem very toned recently" or "Wow, I'll bet that's a fantastic glute workout. Your husband must be happy with the results."
He hasn't crossed a line yet, but he's edging closer and closer, and I have a sinking feeling that I can guess where this leads. Finally, he rests one hand on my upper thigh and leans in, conspiratorially. "Susan, have you given any more thought to the Atlanta conference? It's coming up and three weeks and I'm trying to lock down the travel arrangements."
"Conference?," I ask in total confusion, not sure if this is something I should pretend to know about or not.
"Yeah, you remember," he prompts, "The big dental conference in Atlanta? I was hoping to bring you along, as there's so many events, so many people, networking, that I really could use my favorite assistant on-site to help keep me focused. I know it's a four day event and that's a lot, but I'd really appreciate it." He's laying it on thick, but at this point I'm going to give him a little rope and see if he chooses to hang himself.
"That sounds interesting," I struggle to say, "But hotel rooms in Atlanta are really expensive."
He laughs as if I've told a great joke, squeezing my thigh and moving his hand a fraction of an inch further up my leg. "Don't worry, that's why I've got us a double-queen suite. It's completely practical, fiscally responsible for a small practice like us, and I'll be a perfect gentleman when we share it."
"I'm not sure I'm comfortable with that," I protest, and he cuts me off, now both hands on my upper thighs as he looks down at me. I'm suddenly aware that the v-neck top is giving him a great view of my breasts and I regret everything about today. His thumb traces the inner seam of my scrub pants, inching higher.
"Susan, you've been telling half the office for months about your marriage issues. We both know it's only a matter of time until you leave that loser of a husband. There's no reason to starve yourself until then, you're a beautiful woman. We can be discreet, protect your reputation. Ed never has to know." My name in his mouth is the final desecration. My heart shatters into a million pieces, which fall into a sewer, and then explode in a nuclear apocalypse, destroying all life. That, right there, confirmed every worst thing I ever suspected, and I can't speak. Ten years of love and marriage, fucking gone.
A hand knocks on the locked door and Doctor Vance glances up, quickly scooting off the desk and away from me, while he goes to unlock it and welcomes the patient, gesturing them in. He checks them in himself, clearly guessing that I need a minute to process his offer, and then walks them back to begin the treatment.
I pick up Susan's phone from the purse, texting "Ed": "Your boss just asked me to go to Atlanta and fuck him during a dental conference, because I've been complaining about my loser husband for months." I set the phone down and stare it, but she does not reply to me. Yeah, I wouldn't know how to reply to that either.
After five minutes of staring at the phone which does not buzz, I lose what little patience I have left. I grab my purse, dropping the phone in it, and walk out of the office. Doctor Sleaze can fucking fire Susan for all I care. I don't ever want to hear his voice again. I drop into Susan's car and turn it on, finding my way through the streets of Fort Mill until I reach the Pinnacle development where she's supposed to be working today.
I edge her small sedan through the fleet of work trucks until I find Lot 7, parking in front of an old tree as I get out. I don't see her - my old body - from the street, so I'll have to go in and find her. Gritting my teeth, I stride into the job site, knowing how many OSHA violations I'm committing but failing to care. I find Susan on the second floor, hands gesticulating wildly as she tries to argue with a plumber. Ten seconds into eavesdropping and it's painfully obvious the plumber is right and she's wrong, but I don't have time for that.
I walk over, white sneakers crunching across the plywood as I step around the construction debris, and begin with the classic: "We need to talk. Now." She grimaces, my old body looking sheepish as she turns to the plumber, apologizing for "his" crazy wife showing up at work and yelling at him.
"Sorry, I need to take this," Susan says, and gestures for me to walk out.
As I'm stepping around a few of the trades, one of them nudges the other, throwing a wink, "Mira esa jeva, cuerpo de milagro." My blood goes cold, and before I can manage a reply, his friend makes it worse.
"Qué rico culo, mamá!" Body like a miracle, and a nice ass? Why that slimy motherfucker.
I spin on them, the words spilling from my mouth in a near-scream before I have a second to think through what I'm about to do: "Respeta, hijo de puta, o te meto esa llana por el culo!" They snap their mouths shut like I've just ordered their executions, faces pale as a ghost, as the job site descends into absolute fucking silence. One guy accidentally drops a nailgun and it gives a loud BRRRAP as it discharges, the nail gone who-the-fuck knows where.
Susan's jaw hangs open. She knows I know Spanish, but doesn't speak it herself and and never knew I could fucking end someone in two sentences like that. As we walk from the site out to the curb, it's so quiet you could hear a pin drop in there. By the time we make it out to where I'd parked her car, my blood pressure is still boiling and I level that anger at her next.
"Have you checked your phone today? Or are you too busy fucking up my job site by giving the plumber the wrong directions and confusing him?" I'm trying to be quiet, but I'm angry as fuck so probably not doing a great job at it.
Susan gives me a half-hearted shrug, "No, it's been a really busy day. What's your damn problem, anyway? This isn't easy to do, there's a lot to balance here."
"Yeah? I'm glad you think my job is hard. Meanwhile, your boss is hard. Feeling up my fucking leg and asking me to go to Atlanta to fuck him for a week, because he knows our marriage is shit!"
Susan's face turns white with a combination of shock and - yeah - guilt. Maybe he'd never been that blatant with her before, but she knew which way it was going, and apparently didn't apply the brakes.
"Fuck you, Susan. Whoever the fuck you are now," I spit the words like venom, voice cracking on the last syllable because even Susan's throat can't hold this much hate, and climb into her car, dropping it into gear and speeding from the development, almost side-swiping a dump truck on my way out. I make it home, flinging a handful of clothes into a bag, and depart once more, slamming the garage door so hard it cracks the frame. Fuck it, I think to myself. Let it all fucking burn down.
I find a cheap motel on the edge of town, checking in under "E. Hayes", and sit on the bed, alone, watching as a cockroach makes its lonely trek across the far wall. How did my marriage come to this? How did my life come to this? I collapse backward onto the bed, staring at the water spots on the ceiling, and feel nothing at all.