rehab.” Her tone sounded happier as she told her woes; then she continued, “So, as you can see, I’m the karmic victim here.”
“No, I’m the victim. How can you talk about karma? You’re stealing my husband.”
There was total quiet as the two women stared at each other.
“It’s probably because of something you’ve done in your previous life. Like, I grew up in Presidential Estates Trailer Court probably because of being a Chinese empress in a previous life.”
What? The girl made no sense. “You sure you weren’t a concubine?” Sylvie asked bitterly.
“I don’t think you can be reincarnated as a vegetable,” M. Molensky said matter-of-factly. “Look, I don’t want to fight with you. Can’t we work something out? Like with kids. Joint custody. I could get him a couple of nights a week and vacations.”
“Vacations!” Sylvie yelped and thought of Hawaii. “You’re not going anywhere with my husband! And…and…neither am I,” she admitted.
“Oh yeah?…Well, Bobby asked me to go to Mexico.”
Sylvie stopped dead, absolutely stunned. If that were true, her mother was wrong. This wasn’t just some bimbo who could be bought off. It wasn’t just sex if Bob was willing to travel with her. “He wanted to take you to Mexico?” Sylvie asked, then turned away and walked to the window, her back to the girl to prevent her from seeing this agony. She stood silent, hurt at her core. If she moved, she felt she’d crack.
Sylvie felt a hand on her shoulder. “It was only because we went to this Flaming Fajitas restaurant,” the girl said, her voice soft. Her sympathy was worse to Sylvie than anything yet. “It was a spur-of-the-moment idea,” she continued. “I don’t think he was really serious about going. I mean, I’ve never seen tickets or reservations. And say, hey! Who wants to lay out in the sun and ruin their skin?”
Sylvie went to the mirror and tried to see herself more clearly but her reflection was obscured by the quince cream. It made her look misty, à la Katharine Hepburn shot through Vaseline in the 1960s. In the smear beside her the girl looked misty too, not that she needed a filter. “I hope I looked as good as you do when I was your age,” Sylvie said.
“I’m sure you did. I can’t believe how nice you are! Once before I was accidentally with someone’s husband and she came over and broke all my lamps.”
They turned away from the mirror and looked at one another.
The girl still stuck out her hand to shake. “By the way, I’m Marla.”
Sylvia recoiled. “ Marla? As in…”
“Yeah. I used to love the name. But then she got dumped.” This Marla heaved a deep sigh.
“I’m Sylvie.” Sylvie extended her hand. Marla took it. There was a moment of real bonding between them—until Sylvie focused on another vase of roses.
“Are those also from…?”
“I’d rather not say,” Marla admitted.
All at once it was way too much. “ I want to be the one who gets the roses!” Sylvie cried out. “And I want him to romance me. I want to be treated like a…” She paused. “Like you.”
“Well, I wanna be you!” Marla said. “You think it’s easy, holding in my belly pooch forever? Ever since I was born I’ve wanted to be a wife.”
“Oh, really? You’re looking at a wife. Does this look like a happy person to you?”
“No,” Marla admitted.
“When you’re married, you don’t even get kissed on the mouth!”
“When you’re single, you have to smell good twenty-four hours a day,” Marla retorted.
She was infuriating. Sylvie suddenly realized why she had come here in the first place. “I want you to stop seeing him,” she demanded.
“Try and make me,” Marla said, sounding half her age. Sylvie wondered for a moment what that would make her. Fourteen? Sixteen? “You can’t tell me what to do.”
“No, but I can tell Bob that this affair is over.” Sylvie saw the fear rise in the girl’s eyes. She pressed her advantage. “Do you
“No, I’m the victim. How can you talk about karma? You’re stealing my husband.”
There was total quiet as the two women stared at each other.
“It’s probably because of something you’ve done in your previous life. Like, I grew up in Presidential Estates Trailer Court probably because of being a Chinese empress in a previous life.”
What? The girl made no sense. “You sure you weren’t a concubine?” Sylvie asked bitterly.
“I don’t think you can be reincarnated as a vegetable,” M. Molensky said matter-of-factly. “Look, I don’t want to fight with you. Can’t we work something out? Like with kids. Joint custody. I could get him a couple of nights a week and vacations.”
“Vacations!” Sylvie yelped and thought of Hawaii. “You’re not going anywhere with my husband! And…and…neither am I,” she admitted.
“Oh yeah?…Well, Bobby asked me to go to Mexico.”
Sylvie stopped dead, absolutely stunned. If that were true, her mother was wrong. This wasn’t just some bimbo who could be bought off. It wasn’t just sex if Bob was willing to travel with her. “He wanted to take you to Mexico?” Sylvie asked, then turned away and walked to the window, her back to the girl to prevent her from seeing this agony. She stood silent, hurt at her core. If she moved, she felt she’d crack.
Sylvie felt a hand on her shoulder. “It was only because we went to this Flaming Fajitas restaurant,” the girl said, her voice soft. Her sympathy was worse to Sylvie than anything yet. “It was a spur-of-the-moment idea,” she continued. “I don’t think he was really serious about going. I mean, I’ve never seen tickets or reservations. And say, hey! Who wants to lay out in the sun and ruin their skin?”
Sylvie went to the mirror and tried to see herself more clearly but her reflection was obscured by the quince cream. It made her look misty, à la Katharine Hepburn shot through Vaseline in the 1960s. In the smear beside her the girl looked misty too, not that she needed a filter. “I hope I looked as good as you do when I was your age,” Sylvie said.
“I’m sure you did. I can’t believe how nice you are! Once before I was accidentally with someone’s husband and she came over and broke all my lamps.”
They turned away from the mirror and looked at one another.
The girl still stuck out her hand to shake. “By the way, I’m Marla.”
Sylvia recoiled. “ Marla? As in…”
“Yeah. I used to love the name. But then she got dumped.” This Marla heaved a deep sigh.
“I’m Sylvie.” Sylvie extended her hand. Marla took it. There was a moment of real bonding between them—until Sylvie focused on another vase of roses.
“Are those also from…?”
“I’d rather not say,” Marla admitted.
All at once it was way too much. “ I want to be the one who gets the roses!” Sylvie cried out. “And I want him to romance me. I want to be treated like a…” She paused. “Like you.”
“Well, I wanna be you!” Marla said. “You think it’s easy, holding in my belly pooch forever? Ever since I was born I’ve wanted to be a wife.”
“Oh, really? You’re looking at a wife. Does this look like a happy person to you?”
“No,” Marla admitted.
“When you’re married, you don’t even get kissed on the mouth!”
“When you’re single, you have to smell good twenty-four hours a day,” Marla retorted.
She was infuriating. Sylvie suddenly realized why she had come here in the first place. “I want you to stop seeing him,” she demanded.
“Try and make me,” Marla said, sounding half her age. Sylvie wondered for a moment what that would make her. Fourteen? Sixteen? “You can’t tell me what to do.”
“No, but I can tell Bob that this affair is over.” Sylvie saw the fear rise in the girl’s eyes. She pressed her advantage. “Do you
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