I don’t remember her name. All I recall, that day, was my anger – a rolling orb in the pit of my gut. I just learned of my wife’s recent fuck-fest. News that saw me take refuge in every bar I could find. The booze worked its magic, anaesthetising my pain. My logic and reason crumbled like rock, landing in chunks at my feet. Driven by a wild and unavailing need for revenge, I took the first step – crossed over that initial jagged stone - the path became clear thereafter.
I spotted her in a bar in the late afternoon. She was young, clean, playing the game so when I asked her how much, she gave me a deal I couldn’t refuse. I slapped half the cash in her hand right then. I know a place, I told her. Not far away. I made a quick call and my life changed course.
We arrived at the place and I led her upstairs, to room number nine. I was oblivious to everything except the sun going down and her arse in my face as she climbed the stairs ahead of me. Just leave, I thought as I took her arm, wanting to say to her forget it but the flickering slide show of Ruth with another man undid me again. I regressed to the hateful revenge-seeking spouse. Paying for sex cheapened the act that would herald my sweetest revenge. So I had her – the clean young thing, for me and because of my wife.
After, I stared up at the blades of a slow spinning fan. Her scent clung to the sheets, her impression indelibly lodged in my own demise. We said nothing as I watched her walk out, closing the door behind her. Only then did I notice the door was red.