The Breakup by Debra Kent

tentatively into the room. Roger tightly wrapped his arms around himself, as if to prevent some
     involuntary confession or gesture of recognition. He looked at her face. Actually, he seemed to focus on a spot above her
     head. He never looked into her eyes.
    Mary raced toward him and threw herself at his feet, humbly and adoringly, like one of those little kids in
The King and I.
“Is true what Mrs. Ryan says, Roger? Is true that she’s your real wife? Is true?”
    Roger looked down at the girl. “Get the hell off me!” he yelled. Then he hit her with his loafer, not a kick exactly, more
     like an attempt to pry her off his legs.
    She started to cry. “Why are you doing this, my husband? Don’t you know who I am? Your little Mary! Don’t you remember me?
     I’m your wife, your little love blossom!”
    Roger looked at me. “Who the hell is this person?” Roger seemed sincerely confused. Suddenly I wasn’t so giddy anymore. I
     was scared. Had I made some bizarre mistake? Was Mary part of some elaborate scam designed to humiliate me?
    I continued. “Don’t bullshit me, Roger. You knowexactly who this is, and so do I, and so does my private investigator.” I helped Mary to her feet and held her as she sobbed
     and snorted into my chest. “You make me sick,” I said.
    “You make me sicker,” he shouted, hoisting himself onto his all-too-familiar high horse. I could see him inflate with self-righteousness
     as he warmed to his new strategy: He would take the offensive. “You bring this girl into our house from God knows where, and
     you believe whatever craziness she tells you. Who knows what she has in mind, what she plans to steal from this house, what
     diseases she’s carrying! You put your family and home in jeopardy all because some wacko tells you she’s my wife? You’re the
     sick one, my dear.” He twirled a finger at his temple. “Certifiably loony!”
    Now Mary was howling. I forged ahead. “Did you really think you were going to get away with this, Roger? You’re a smart man.
     What on earth made you think you could have some kind of crazy pseudo secret marriage with a sixteen-year-old girl and actually
     get away with it?”
    Roger jumped up and pointed an accusing finger at Mary. “You said you were twenty-one.”
    All three of us gasped at Roger’s self-revelatory faux pas. He covered his mouth with a hand and fell back in the chair. “Dear
     God,” he muttered. “Dear God.”
    I stared at him. “You pathetic excuse for a man.You depraved, decripit sicko. You make me want to vomit.”
    Roger rubbed his eyes wearily. “Don’t let me stop you,” he answered. “But not on the carpet, please.” I marveled at his ability,
     even in his ravaged state, to construct a snide comeback.
    “Allow me to enumerate your crimes,” I said. “Number one, you’re a bigamist. In case you’re wondering, bigamy is prohibited
     in our state, according to Statute 1846, which states, in Section Five, ‘No marriage shall be contracted whilst either of
     the parties has a former wife or husband living, unless the marriage with such former wife or husband shall have been dissolved.’
     ” He stared at me and I beamed back. “I looked it up on the Internet!” I was feeling giddy again. “Number two, you’re probably
     going to be convicted of statutory rape!”
    “I think not,” Roger said. “The legal age of consent in this state is sixteen.
I
looked it up on the Internet.” He thrust his chin out defiantly.
    “But I was only fifteen when we started,” Mary said quietly.
    Roger and I looked at her. Roger put his hands over his face. “Jesus God.”
    I looked at my watch. “You have twenty minutes to pack a bag. Call me with your address and I’ll have the rest of your crap
     sent to you tomorrow. Just get the hell out of here.”
    Roger stood up and wagged a finger at me. “You’renot going to get away with this, you realize that.” Roger was up to his neck in his own shit and he’s